


The Most Tender Part of Love

by Misbehaving



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16364969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misbehaving/pseuds/Misbehaving
Summary: How much can change in the course of a week (or so) for Will and MacKenzie?  Includes flashbacks of their earlier relationship. Draws upon the events of Season 2, Episodes 3 & 4, as a basic framework.  New story from what was originally started in 2012.





	1. Instrument of Change

**Author's Preface:** I'm new to this site.  I first began this piece in December 2012.  However, I couldn't get the pieces of the puzzle to fit like I wanted.  But I re-watched the show again recently and finally I figured it out.  However, this is a much different story than before.

 

**Friday, September 30, 2011**

Will loved his work when words came easy.  On the days they didn’t? Well, on those days, he should have listened to his maternal grandfather and gone to medical school like his younger brother.

Today was one of those days.  In fact, the past month was a struggle with a few notable exceptions. There was the American Taliban comparison, of course… look where that got him.  And his call for the release of the Obama Administration’s memorandum authorizing the use of unmanned drone strikes.  However, that really belonged to Mac.  He was pleased with the 9/11 Tenth Anniversary script.  But he would never receive credit for it because he was “benched” and it was delivered by Sloan and Eliot. 

That one still hurt.  How could it not?  He remembered in excruciating detail every one of the 24 hours he spent on air. Like millions of others, he still bore scars from the horrors of that day and the ones that followed.  Without conscious thought his mind drifted back five years to his one happy September 11thmemory of the past decade (assuming there could be such a thing). 

_Monday, September 11, 2006_

_Will was completely drained as he entered his apartment building after the Fifth Anniversary 9/11 broadcast.  He had been back in New York City—and back at ACN—for six weeks after spending three years at CNN, first in New York and then in D.C.  His new prime-time show, News Night, was coming together, though it felt strange working without MacKenzie.  He was so accustomed to having her in his ear._

_She was his muse even before they met.  He was CNN’s White House correspondent at the time while she was producing the six o’clock hour from the DC bureau.  He made frequent appearances on that show, reporting from the South Lawn.  He avoided meeting her for months because he was afraid that the reality of her could never live up to his vision of her.  Finally, curiosity forced him to seek her out.  In an instant, he was completely blown away that she was, in fact, the woman of his dreams.  After that, he made excuse after excuse to see her; and when he took over an evening anchor gig, he insisted that she must  be his executive producer._

_Of course, Mac being Mac, she found ways to be intimately involved in this new endeavor even though she was still running “their” show in D.C.  They spent nearly every weekend together, most often in Washington, and they talked for hours every night.  He wished tonight was last night. He wanted her here with him.  But, she, too, had unavoidable work responsibilities associated with this particular day._

_He walked into the apartment and it took a second before he heard the TV coming from the other room.  “MacKenzie,” he said aloud as he practically threw his work bag on the sofa.  He moved quickly into the kitchen and the sight of her dressed casually in a t-shirt and running pants was breathtaking.  She must have sensed his presence because in an instant she turned around and smiled at him._

_“You were so good tonight, Will… so good.”_

_“How did you?”_

_“I cut out a little early and caught the 8 o’clock shuttle.  I need you tonight.”_

_“Thank God!”  He felt the understanding in her eyes as she moved towards him and said, “I know, Billy… I know.”_

_In her bare feet, she just reached the top part of his chest.  He kissed the top of her head as he stroked her back. A sigh of both contentment and relief at her presence exploded from him._

_She took him by the hand to the kitchen table where he found half a sandwich, and a large glass of water.  “Eat up, and then we’re going for a run.”  She gently pushed him down in his seat._

_“A run? Seriously, Mac? It’s been a really long day.  Can’t we just engage in indoor cardio activities?” He groused, before adding, “And I need a drink.”_

_“Later,” she insisted.  “We have work to do. Marathons don’t run themselves.”_

_"_ _I want to re-negotiate that,” he replied as he picked up the sandwich._

_“No, you don’t… because you get to do it with me.”_

_He laughed.  Such was her power over him.  She was always going to get her way._

_Within 15 minutes they were out the door and headed towards the harbor.  Though his stride was much longer, he struggled to keep up with her pace. Finally, she let up when they reached Battery Park.  They slowed to a walk and when they had caught their breath, she took his hand._

_As they walked, she told him about what September 11, 2001, had been like for her.  She was still twenty-one at the time. She had graduated high school at sixteen and from Cambridge at twenty with a Master's Degree. She was reporting and producing for the BBC in London._

_She talked about the disbelief and devastation felt by the British people about the tragedy that was unfolding “across the pond.” She shared details about the around-the-clock coverage in Britain, the sharp increase in public awareness and fear of terrorism, and the memorial service on September 14 that St. Paul’s Cathedral that she attended with her parents.  She explained that it was then that she decided it was time to return to the country of her birth.  Within six months, she was working for CNN, first in Atlanta and then in D.C. where they met. _

_They found a bench near the water overlooking Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. She curled up next to him to ward off the evening breeze coming in off the river and surprised him when she said, “I remember watching you in the anchor chair that week.  Of course, I didn’t know who you were then… even so, I remember.”_

_More astonishing was how through soft and tender persuasion and just the right questions, she got him to talk about that horrific day and the days that followed.  He found himself telling her things he had never told a living soul, including about the nightmares that still from time to time kept him awake at all hours.  When he finished, he felt such relief in the telling and in the knowledge that she understood.  She kissed him and then whispered, “Let’s go home.”_

_They found a cab and rode back to his apartment. After, they undressed each other, showered, and then made love together wholly without words.  As they drifted off to sleep, she reminded him, “I love you, William McAvoy.”  And at that moment Will believed that he could conquer the world._

The buzzing of his phone returned his mind to the present.  For 9.8 years he planned for his country’s retribution and when, finally, Bin Laden was killed last May, he was ready.  He was great that night.  Everyone said so.  But then—under the influence of a marijuana laced euphoria—he let his heart rule his head and left that ridiculous voicemail for MacKenzie.  And now he knew why.  His marijuana buzzed brain must have recognized the similarities between that night and the one nearly 5 years before.

For months that unanswered voicemail tortured him as those all too familiar feelings of bitter betrayal, resentment and confusion played constantly in his brain and rebuilt themselves into what felt like an impenetrable fortress.  Now, after all the intervening months and events since May 1, he could only feel relief that his confession had been highjacked. Of course, MacKenzie was blameless in the disappearance of the voicemail.  However, there was simply no way to breach that citadel and scale its walls.  That knowledge made him angry.  Angry at himself and even more angry at Mac and what she had destroyed with her lying and cheating.

If only he had a couple of those marijuana laced cookies today.  The past few days had been difficult.  On Monday, he lost it with MacKenzie when, while pestering him for the thousandth time about the voicemail, she came too close to the truth he could not reconcile within himself:  that his anger at her was less than his love for her.  They had not talked since.  Oh, she had been in his ear day and night.  However, that was the show and nothing more.  He owed her an apology far greater than he gave her.  That much he knew.  But what did she want from him anyway?  Wasn’t he doing his part to steer this ship of impossible dreams that Charlie had plotted, and she had built?  Would she ever be satisfied?

And over the weekend he would return to Nebraska for his nephew’s First Holy Communion.  He adored his nieces and nephews; and he loved his siblings.  But his twin sisters’ easy acceptance of their father was incomprehensible to him.  Even his brother, who spent half his time at sea as an active duty Navy surgeon, appeared reconciled to the man.  How, after all that happened to them, could they be so blind?

He really wanted one of those cookies.  “No,” he chided himself as he grabbed a cigarette instead.  Those days were behind him.   They had to be.  Too much was at stake.  He couldn’t afford to lose control; and he refused to be anything like his father. He also promised Charlie and Mac when he was released from the hospital that he wouldn’t self-medicate again.  He would take only what he was prescribed and only as directed.  Reese was also out to get him—yet one more thing to keep in mind.  At least Nina was playing nice, and their “civility” pact was working out amazingly well.

He stared at his computer screen.  He gazed out the window.  He re-focused back on his computer screen.  Over and over until finally he was saved by a knock on his door.  “Come in,” he called out enthusiastically, welcoming any distraction.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Maggie Jordan, as she walked into his office, the hesitation in her voice unmistakable.

He closed his laptop.  “It’s no problem.  What can I do for you?  Are you and Gary ready to leave tonight?”

“Yes.  But this is different.”

“Okay…”

“One of the post-9/11 Anniversary stories I’ve been researching is the price that journalists have paid in covering the wars in the Middle East and related terrorist attacks, and well….” she paused.

"What does Mac say?"

She shook her head.  "I haven’t talked to her.  I didn’t think....”

“I don’t understand.”

“I remembered something Jim told me and we… I mean me... I mean..."

Will could see his young producer’s anxiety level increase by the second and he did not want a panic attack on his hands. MacKenzie would tear him to pieces. Unlike Maggie (and plenty of others), MacKenzie Morgan McHale had never been the slightest bit intimidated by him—not even from the beginning when she was twenty-five and younger than Maggie was now. 

But then MacKenzie never seemed her age.  She was a born leader with a vision and deep self-confidence he envied even to this day.  Was it the circumstances of their childhoods that made it this way?  She, the youngest McHale who was born into a wealthy, well-traveled, internationally respected family with doting parents and four older siblings while he, the oldest McAvoy was raised in rural Nebraska by an abusive, alcoholic father and a mother, who though brilliant and strong, took him back time and time again. 

“Will?” Maggie interrupted his reverie. 

“Sit down,” he calmly assured her while gesturing towards the nearest chair, “and tell me what you need.”

She meekly sat as she was told.  But she refused to look at him.  Quietly she said, “I don’t really need anything.  It’s just….”

“Maggie.”  He waited until she reluctantly made eye contact before continuing.  “Unless you are coming to me for dating advice, I’m not going to bite your head off for a private, closed-door conversation,” he teased.

She nodded.  “There’s something you need to see.  You won’t want to, and you’ll be furious at me for giving it to you.  But you need to watch it.  You need to know….” She stood and without another word handed him a thumb drive.

He looked at the small device in his hand before asking, “What’s this about?”

“Mac… It’s about Mac,” she said.  

“MacKenzie?” he questioned aloud.  But Maggie hurriedly left the room, shutting the door behind her.  Will froze for a moment as that indescribable feeling one gets when expecting bad news washed over him.  Intuitively he knew that Maggie was right.  He did not want to know what was on the drive.  However, in the end, he was powerless to stop himself from inserting it into his computer.

He lit a cigarette, clicked on the only file on the drive and watched intently as it began to play.  The video showed a crowd of what appeared to be an Islamic protest.  He studied the topography in the scene and guessed that it had to be Pakistan.  He had no idea what was being shouted; and while the scene seemed peaceful, there was rabid anger in the eyes of the protesters as the camera moved in closer; and the tension was palpable.

After a few minutes the camera panned right to MacKenzie, who was reporting from the scene.  His mouth felt dry as he stared at the image of her.  She looked so like she did when they were together. Before May 11, 2007—the day she ripped his heart out—the single worst day of his life.  The pain was not as acute as it had once been.  How could it be with her so present in his life again? Nonetheless, he still struggled daily with the fallout from that day.

A sharp increase in volume from the video startled him. Chaos had erupted, drowning out Mac's commentary. Suddenly a man approached her and thrust something into her before he turned to face the camera in triumph, an evil smile on his face, hatred in his eyes, and the long blade of a knife, now bloody, clearly visible in his hand. Then he vanished as quickly as he appeared.  In abject terror, Will watched her fall to the ground as the screen went black.

He stared at the blank screen in disbelief. The video couldn't be real. Something so heinous could not have happened to her. He would have known.  Charlie had said there were bullets flying and that she was mentally and physically exhausted, however, he made no mention of any actual injury to her.   It had to be a prank.

Was he being punked?  Was Mac getting back at him for bringing Brian Brenner in to write that story, or for yelling at her on Monday and refusing to discuss the voicemail? He berated himself for thinking that of her.  He had explained about Brian.  In truth, no explanation was necessary.  MacKenzie knew him too well.  Yet another thing that bugged the hell out of him at times.  She cajoled and tested, challenged and teased him with her intellect, wit, and her fiery spirit; and she caressed and tempted him with her eyes and unconsciously with her body.  However, such a prank would be cruel; and MacKenzie was not that way. Cruelty was his specialty, not hers.

And yet, he almost wished she could be deliberately cruel. Such a prospect was so much better than the alternative. He checked the date of the file—October 8, 2009—then replayed the video thrice more, hoping to find any sign that it was fabricated.  An icy recognition filled his veins as he found none.  MacKenzie was stabbed on her thirtieth birthday.  Her off-hand response to his casual question after their first _News Night_ broadcast about being “exhausted since she was thirty” now took on an entirely new significance.

She was alive and seemingly healthy not fifty feet away, but that knowledge could not alleviate the sharp pain he felt from seeing her that way. It was as if the knife was stuck in his gut, too.  How could this have happened to her?  How could he have not known?

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Fences

MacKenzie was surprised at how quickly Will removed his microphone left the set after the broadcast.  She expected him to revel over his total dismantling of Neal’s Occupy Wall Street groupie.  

The past month they had fallen into the habit of reviewing the day while lingering on set.  Often afterward, they would, like the rest of the staff, meet up at Hang Chew’s for a quick drink.   Of course, that was before Monday.

She’d been at ACN for over seventeen months, yet their personal relationship still existed perched on a tall, jagged fence, caught between the past and the present.  No matter how she encouraged, pleaded, teased and occasionally threatened, they were stuck on that fence.  To him, she was both friend and enemy.    Monday had been yet another reminder that when he hit back, he hit hard.  She understood why he was that way. Nonetheless, it hurt. 

She sighed and then regained her resolve. She would hang on to hope—hope that the barriers of their past could someday be torn completely down, leaving them free to take on the future unencumbered.  There was love and longing in his eyes at times.  On other occasions, usually when she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, anger and loathing burst forth. 

Why did he leave the set so abruptly? Had he received new threats?  No. That would distract her, but not him. He remained completely nonchalant about his safety.  Was he already brooding about the weekend?  Of course, he was, and probably had been for days.

_Friday, November 4, 2005_

_Mac crossed the street after exiting the CNN building and immediately spotted Will waiting for her twenty-feet away.  This connection between them puzzled her.  He was so different from anyone she knew._

_His intelligence was so keen as was his skill at breaking down any argument; and he had more raw talent than she had ever seen in a journalist. Yet, underneath it all, there was… words failed her… there was his wonder at his own successes; and certainly, a reserve in his personal demeanor that belied the confidence and boldness on display whenever he was on camera, or when they were locked in a battle of wits and will.  He was wry and serious.  And both an idealist and a romantic (probably more so than herself).  She loved that about him (though she would never tell him because he would deny it to kingdom come)._

_“What are you chuckling about?” Will asked as she reached him._

_“You,” she replied._

_“Why?”_

_“Because you completely screwed up the first minute of that last interview and then you pivoted 180 degrees and nailed it.”_

_“I did what?”_

_“Forget it,” she told him.  “Where do you want to walk this evening?  And more important, what are you feeding me after?”_

_He insisted that she shed her heels in favor of more casual, exercise-type shoes on these outings.  Ordinarily, she would resist.  She was superstitious that way, believing that her power came from her shoes.  With him though—on nights like this—she needed no such talisman (although, she felt even tinier in comparison to his solid 6’3” frame)._

_“Across Memorial Bridge and over to Iwo Jima?” he suggested._

_“I do love that view—from both directions.”_

_“Me, too.”_

_He secured a cab for them and they made small talk as they rode across town to a spot where they could access the wide, majestic structure without getting killed in the process from all the traffic coming in and out of the city._

_“I hate that winter is coming.  I like these quiet sojourns of ours,” she mentioned as they began their crossing.  “Walking around this city was a favorite pastime of mine as a child.  My father told such fascinating stories and somehow he always had the answers to my endless stream of questions about its history, and later, politics.”_

_Will snorted.  “I’m sure he anticipated what was coming.”_

_“Much like you do,” she replied with a gentle earnestness._

_He stopped and turned towards her, a puzzled look on his face. “Is that what I do?”_

_She nodded.  “I think so. It feels like that a lot.”_

_“That’s how it feels for me with you, too.”_

_MacKenzie smiled, and again thought that this thing—this relationship—they were building was something unique.  She liked him.  And she liked who she was with him.  This was something new for her.  Maybe because they were taking things slow and deliberate, and sex wasn’t muddying the waters.  That, too, was different for her.  Or perhaps, because she still felt the sting and confusion of past relationships—the sting of Brian Brenner—and she was approaching this one more cautiously and with greater self-awareness.  But her attraction to him was real._

_Will interrupted her silent musings. “I’m old enough to be your father.  It’s one thing to work together but quite a different thing to be involved.”_

_"_ _Sixteen years is nowhere close to that characterization.  And why worry about that now?”_

_“Because you’re not ready?”_

_Will knew about Brian, at least some things about him; and he knew Brian on a professional level—and not in a good way.  “Not yet… but I’m getting closer, I think.  You make it impossible to feel otherwise.  Besides, you can’t be all that ready yourself, or you wouldn’t keep harping on our ages or be so insistent that we are not seen together without work as a solid alibi.”_

_“That’s for your protection, Mac, not mine.”_

_She chose not to question his reply, but instead slipped her hand into his much larger one.  She caught the look of surprise on his face in the glow of the street lamps and felt a crack develop in the ice that coated her heart._

_They trekked up to the huge, bronze depiction of the Marines raising the American flag on that tiny Pacific island in 1945, and then sat on the lawn near its base and marveled at the vista before them—the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, and Capitol Building all lined up in perfect visual symmetry.  After, they made their way to a quiet Italian restaurant nearby._

_They were starving by the time their food came so conversation was minimal, though she took every possible opportunity to study his face.  As they lingered over a shared piece of tiramisu, she asked, “How did you get the scar on your chin?”_

_“Playing football.  I took a hard hit.”_

_“What?”_

_He shook his head.  “You don’t know much about football, do you?”_

_“I know soccer.  We left here when I was ten and my parents are very British, so I had little opportunity to learn.”_

_“Or interest?”_

_“That, too,” she agreed.  “But my brother taught me to be feisty and crafty on the pitch.”_

_He laughed.  “That is an understatement, I’m sure.”_

_“So explain it to me.”_

_“I was the quarterback.  I dropped back to throw the ball and a player from the opposing team broke free and his helmet caught me just under the chin and it split open. They stitched me up and I finished the game.”  He must have seen the disbelief in her face because he added, “I loved to play.  There was no way they were keeping me off that field.”_

_“You were feisty and crafty, too,” she teased._

_“Is that just another way of saying I have no athletic ability?”_

_“I think you excel at anything you put your mind to doing.” She paused to give him a moment and then asked, “And the one by your right eye?”_

_“I don’t remember.”_

_“Will,” she pressed softly.  “You have practically a photographic memory.”_

_“It’s not something you want to hear.”_

_She watched a host of powerful emotions play across his expressive blue eyes.  She didn’t say anything but just held his gaze._

_“MacKenzie,” he said finally, “my home life was very different from yours.”_

_She reached across their small table and took his hand and began to caress the top of his knuckles with her thumb.  “And I keep droning on about my family.  I’m…”_

_“Stop.  You have nothing to apologize for…. I like learning about you and hearing stories about all the McHales.  But this is ugly, MacKenzie, and you don’t need…”_

_“Do you trust me?”_

_He nodded._

_“Then let me in.”_

_He sighed.  “Okay….” He took a deep breath to gather his thoughts and then he said, “My father is an abusive alcoholic.  I got the scar after I came home from baseball practice one day to find that he had lost his temper at my little sisters and then blamed my mother.  As I came in the house, I watched him break her nose. I stepped in and he came at me, so I grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen table and smashed it against his face.  A piece of glass rebounded and lodged in my cheek.”_

_“Oh, Will!  How old were you?”_

_“Eleven.  But I was big for my age.”_

_“You were just a boy.  And your brother and sisters were…”_

_“My brother was almost six and my sisters were three.  And no, it wasn’t a one-time thing….”_

“MacKenzie?”

She turned around to find Sloan looking at her with a worried look on her face.  “Problem?” she asked her.

“Are you okay?” Sloan questioned in return, gesturing to the completely empty and dark corridor between the studio and control room where she now stood alone.

“Just gathering wool,” she explained.  “Do you need something?”

“We’re leaving.  Are you ready?”

“Has Will gone?”

Sloan shook her head.  “I think he’s still in his office.”

“Go ahead without me,” she insisted.  “I’ll meet you there.” 

“Kenzie… I heard about his tirade at you on Monday and he seems to be in one of those moods.  He completely decimated that OWS chick.  Are you sure?”

Mac shook her head and firmly said, “She wasn’t prepared for anything else.  He’s not in that kind of mood.  Trust me. I’ll meet you there.”

After Sloan left, MacKenzie walked across the newsroom to her office.  She set her notes from the show on her desk, pulled the elastic out of her hair and quickly ran a brush through it, hoping to leave her EP persona behind.  She hesitated a moment at Will’s door wondering if, given his surprising exit, she should knock.  But when had such a thing ever stopped her?  So instead she softly turned the handle and quietly stepped inside. Will was staring out the window. He had shed his suit coat but nothing else.

He must have heard her come in because he didn’t startle when she asked, “You okay?”

Will turned around, hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

“Billy, are you worried about going home?” she pressed, moving closer to him.

“It’s not home,” he insisted, “not anymore.  It hasn’t been home in decades.”

“Whatever.  Are you worried about being around your Dad?”

He snorted and then shrugged. 

She took a step closer to him, longing to comfort this dutiful oldest son who missed his mother’s love years after her death, though he could not understand many of her choices, and who still deep down yearned for the approval and respect of his father. “Will…” She paused until their eyes locked.  “You are the best man I know.  Remember that truth this weekend.  Try to relax and have fun.  It’s not often you get to be with all of your siblings.”  He snorted again, but his eyes sent a different message back to her.  He would do as she asked.

“Want to join us at Hang Chew’s?  Maybe sing a little for us?  You did promise the staff a song.”

“I have a date,” he replied.

“Oh…” She tried to keep her voice even and her expression neutral, while mentally trying not to imagine just what kind of woman he would be hooking up with tonight.  She needed a vacation, or at least a drink.

He shrugged and returned back to the window, hands still buried in his suit pants.

Something was definitely wrong.  She waited to see if he would re-engage and when he didn’t, she went to him and placed a supportive hand on the small of his back, her body nearly next to him.  She felt him sigh but beyond that he remained still.  She, too, remained quiet.

After a time and while still looking out at the city, he asked her, “Why did you leave Atlanta and go to the Middle East?”

“What?”

“Why did you go?” he repeated.

In all the time they worked together on _News Night_ , never had he so much mentioned in passing her time overseas.  Why on earth would he be obsessed with this now?  His voice was so earnest that she ignored the frustration she so often felt when she was completely clueless as to what was taking place in his head and said simply, “You know why.”

He stepped away from her touch and turned towards her.  Quietly he told her, “I don’t.  We weren’t even working at the same network, or in the same city.”

His use of selective memory frustrated her even more. “You seriously don’t know?” 

“How the hell would I know?  We weren’t speaking at the time, remember?  You should.  You caused it.”

She should be immune to his verbal darts that always hit the mark, but she wasn’t.   “Yes, I did.  I screwed up. I’ve admitted that over and over and over, including in several emails where I also talked about going.” 

“I told you.  I didn’t read them.”

“You’ve only obsessed over the ones from before?”

“The ones during which you were sleeping with Brian? Yeah.  The only ones that count.”

“What did you see in them before I told you about Brian?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” she pointed out quietly. “They were love letters.”

“Only in the Machiavellian definition of the word,” he threw back.  “Which is why I didn’t give a damn about the ones after.”

Although he had said that before, she thought he was lying, trying to save face.  Now she knew she was delusional.  He hadn’t read any of them.  He truly did not care.  “Then don’t stand here and blame me for your ignorance when it was something you wanted.” She turned away from him.

 “MacKenzie…”

All she heard was condescension in his voice. She turned around, fire in her eyes. “You have no right to question me—question my decisions.  You cut me out of your life.  You left me sitting alone on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial after midnight because I had the gall to want to start what I thought was going to be our life together—our marriage—with complete honesty between us.  You didn’t even allow me to explain.  You turned your back on me and walked away… and you never looked back.”

“Is that a question, Mac?” he asked, hands on his hips and defiance in his eyes that she would question that he was anything but justified in reacting like he did.

“No, it’s not a question.  It’s a fact.  At least be honest and admit it, Will.”

“Alright.  I admit it. Happy now?”

She shook her head.  “Do you think this is how I want things to be with us—how I’ve ever wanted things between us?”

The hurt and anger in her voice apparently pierced his own fortress of emotions and he swore under his breath.  “I know it’s not,” he acknowledged.  “Why did you go?”

His anger and defiance disappeared as quickly as they came to be replaced by an almost pleading.  However, still stinging from their exchange, she wasn’t ready to give in completely. “It’s been almost four years, why is it so important to you now?”

“It just is….  It just is.”  He returned to the window.

MacKenzie watched him again thrust his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.  She was still clueless as to what was going on, but she could not take seeing him this way. She took a few steps towards him and hoping she could find the right words, she told him, “I came to hate producing and being in a newsroom; and Atlanta just wasn’t for me.  I was suffocating. D.C. was too painful, which, of course, is why I left there in the first place.  New York obviously was not an option.  So, I got out.  It’s what I know and what I’m good at.”

He again turned towards her.  “But it isn’t what you want.”

It would be pointless to lie to him.  He knew well the history of her youth, of being moved from one diplomatic outpost to another:  New York, Washington D.C., Russia, South Africa, and Hong Kong. Even after she entered Cambridge, her father continued to be assigned to various hotspots around the world.   “No, it’s not,” she acknowledged.  But she refused to look at his face, to let him see how vulnerable that admission made her feel.

Only he refused to leave it there.  He closed the distance between them, tucked his chin and softened his expression as he said, “What you want is a home.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

She was startled when he stepped back as if he’d been burned.  She was more surprised when he said, “You really left because of me?”

“Because of us, Billy.  Because of us.  And why didn’t you just tell me that all you said in the voicemail was that I did a great job the night we got Bin Laden?”

“What?”

“You heard me.  Why the act?”

“Is that what you think?  Mac, I….”

“We’re talking about the smallest of compliments, Will, and you can’t acknowledge it in the light of day, even after all these months.  I put my reputation on the line that night, and I did it for you.”  She sighed and threw up her hands.  “Why the hell do I even bother?”     

She turned and walked away.  She wanted to go home but she would go to Hang Chew’s. Otherwise Sloan would seek her out and ask questions she did not want to answer. And frankly, she had no answers. 

 

 


	3. Windows of the Soul

**Monday, October 3, 2011**

At 3 a.m. Will gave up on trying to sleep. The nightmares of Friday night were back. Actually, he had them Saturday night in Nebraska, too, only not as intense. Saturday night’s dreams were filled with a plethora of disturbing images all jumbled together. But that didn’t bother him—that was normal, particularly when in Nebraska. This was not.

Every time he began to drift off, the same image played over and over in his mind: The thrust of a dagger and MacKenzie crumpling to the ground. He told himself time and time again that she was fine and asleep in her bed a few miles away. But still the images came.

Perhaps watching the video repeatedly would break its spell. Will pulled the file up on his laptop, grabbed a single beer, and watched it until he believed he was numb to it. Once again, he tried to sleep; and once again, the attempt was in vain. If anything, the image in his head was more disturbing and more gruesome.

Exasperated, he again rolled out of bed. How he wanted to immerse himself in a bottle of bourbon! But he promised. Besides, falling into that trap again would be stupid. Instead he drank a glass of water and stepped outside onto his balcony, hoping the view and the cool morning air would give him some much needed perspective (or at least clear his head).

Was he making a mountain out of nothing? Maybe what happened looked a lot worse than it was in reality. If it had been a big deal, he would have known. It would have been a story; and to his knowledge, it never had been. Besides, Mac certainly seemed unaffected by it. Fundamentally, she was the same: passionate, strong-willed, idealistic and optimistic. She was older, of course, and wiser; but it had been two years. If it had been serious, surely there would be visible signs of the trauma.

He went back inside and again opened his laptop. He ran an Internet search and found nothing on that October date about MacKenzie, or an injury to an American or British journalist. He sighed in relief; and then laughed at himself for making such a big deal out of it. MacKenzie was safe and sleeping soundly a couple miles away.

He hoped she was sleeping. But there was a good chance she was in the same boat. He sighed. Friday night was a disaster. Would things ever again be simple between them? He ran his fingers roughly through his hair in frustration.

Of course, Jack Habib could well be right that he was overly sensitive to his past and notions of betrayal. He was an eye-witness to the hurt in his mother’s eyes that never quite disappeared after his father repeatedly cheated on her and then abandoned them for a time for his latest mistress, before returning months later, as angry, alcoholic and abusive as ever. Not even repeated periods in jail changed things.

Finally, after his Dad’s last stint of incarceration—imposed by the court as a result of the incident that ended when Will cracked a bottle of whisky over his head—the physical violence stopped. By then, Will, at nearly fourteen, was taller than his Dad; bigger and stronger, too. Two years of running the farm and being the “man” of the house made him that way.

The alcohol, however, and Will suspected, the cheating, went unchanged. On too many nights Will was forced to drag his father out of the local bar and take him home because it was what his mother asked him to do. Yet, in spite of the alcohol, the physical and emotional abuse, his mother loved John McAvoy—for all the good it did her. She insisted that things got better after he got out of jail the last time. He didn’t see how. Will felt his anxiety grow and his chest tightened.

He hurried inside and sat down at his piano. Will loved music. But he had come to hate the piano as a boy. He detested the endless hours he was forced to practice and the constant badgering of his father, who both reveled in and resented his “highbrow” musical proclivities. Most of all, however, he abhorred that his playing was often the only thing that mysteriously protected his family and distracted his father when the man flew into a drunken rage. Will swore on the day the bastard went to jail for the last time that he would never play the piano again.

Instead he threw himself even more into school and sports, which was something else his father—who had no athletic ability save for his fists under the influence of alcohol—resented. Although he loved to brag around town about his “son” the star quarterback and pitcher.

But over time, Will discovered that playing ball—much as he loved it—could not satisfy him completely. He could not deny the music that lived in his soul. So instead he turned to the guitar (and to singing). Lately, however, that had not been enough. They did not give him what he needed.

Then a week after his release from the hospital in early August, he attended a benefit concert featuring a piano prodigy and everything changed. Had there been something about the young man and the effortless ways his fingers masterfully worked the keys that reminded him of himself? Or was it the beauty in the haunting melodies that called to him like a siren? He did not know. But something re-awakened in him that night. He felt the itch to play again.

He thought the urge would fade in a few days and he would again be satisfied with his guitars. It didn’t. He recognized now that it was like comparing football to baseball. He loved both equally, but piano—like baseball—breached his soul on a level that guitar and football could not quite reach. So, he broke the promise he made to himself as a twelve year-old, gave into the itch, and bought a piano.

He turned the third bedroom of his apartment into a music studio. He kept the door shut. His piano was there only to please himself. He told no one about it, not even MacKenzie, despite the fact that she was the one person other than his brother, who knew he played and understood his promise never to play again.

_Saturday, December 17, 2005_

_Will was anxious as he unlocked the door to his apartment with MacKenzie at his side. While they had spent time together at her place, this would be her first visit to his own sanctuary, located across the river in Crystal City, Virginia._

_They had officially been dating for about a month and tonight they were celebrating an early Christmas before MacKenzie left for Europe in the morning. Her brother—the next youngest sibling but five years her senior—was temporarily assigned to NATO headquarters and the McHale family had decided to gather there for Christmas instead of England._

_For tonight’s date, they ate dinner at McCormick & Schmick’s and then made their way to Ford’s Theatre for the annual presentation of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.”_

_He watched intently as MacKenzie surveyed his space. Even at this time of night, she looked lovely in her dark green dress and matching heels._

_He set the bag of gifts she had brought for him under the little Christmas tree he had purchased precisely for this moment and gave her a brief tour. He expected that the stunning views of the Potomac and the National Mall would draw her attention at least temporarily. Instead she went straight to his guitars that were lined up against one wall of his living room._

_“I know your passion for music and I’ve heard you sing when you think nobody is around, but why haven’t you told me you play?”_

_“It’s just something I do to unwind.”_

_“These four guitars speak a different story,” she informed him._

_He realized again that he should know better than to try and shrug her off._

_“Will you play for me? And sing?” she suggested. “Something for Christmas?”_

_He anticipated this request.  Nonetheless, growing up she was exposed to the best musicians in the world. How could he ever compete with that? He was good, but not on that level. “What about after opening presents and crème brulee? I baked it myself.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Hey… I got to use a blow torch.”_

_She laughed. “That’s your story, huh?”_

_Thirty minutes later, they sat on the living room sofa with paper wrappings strewn around their feet and a pile of gifts on either side. MacKenzie handed him the last gift bag and told him to open the top gift first._

_Carefully, he unwrapped it and found a framed photograph of him with his brother and his two nephews at a Baltimore Ravens game the weekend before Thanksgiving._

_His brother, Matt, was currently stationed in Norfolk. Will liked having him nearby. His nephews, who were nine and six, were becoming big football fans much to their Uncle Will’s delight. He would spend Christmas with them where he would also meet his two-day old niece for the first time. In the photo, the boys were wearing their new Ravens jerseys with pride. “Is this the one you took?” he asked her._

_“Do you like it?”_

_“I do. And as you have undoubtedly noticed,” he added while gesturing to the spartanly finished room around them, “it won’t be hard to find a place for it.”_

_“I guessed as much,” she admitted. “Open the next one.”_

_He did so and found a complimentary photo of the two of them from the same game—her first real football game. “You lied to me… this is a great photo. You must know how beautiful you are.”_

_She rested her hand on his arm. “I’m glad that you think so. Turn the frame over.”_

_On the back was taped an envelope. He opened it and exclaimed, “Jets tickets?”_

_“New Year’s Day at the Meadowlands. It seemed appropriate to return the favor.”_

_He looked closer at the tickets. “MacKenzie, these are great seats.”_

_“I had help,” she admitted._

_“And the second ticket?” he asked._

_“You could ask Matt…. or you could invite me.”_

_“But you’ll be in Belgium with your family.”_

_“I won’t be if we have a date,” she said coyly. “You can buy me a Jets jersey, too.”_

_One of his Christmas presents to her was a Ravens jersey because they were now her adopted “home” team. He considered taking her to a Redskins game instead—but—decided he had a far greater chance of getting her to cheer for a team named after a piece of literature rather than an archaic and derogatory nickname for Native Americans (besides that particular week, Baltimore-Pittsburgh was a far more intriguing matchup than Washington-Oakland)._

_She took the tickets out of his hand and curled up next to him. “Interested?”_

_He nodded with a gulp as she began to kiss him, somewhat tentatively at first but then with growing confidence. She was going to be his undoing. After several minutes, he groaned, and said reluctantly, “We better get you home. Your flight leaves early and I doubt you’ve packed.”_

_“You’re right, of course, but play and sing for me first?” she asked, stroking the side of his face. “Please?”_

_He retrieved one of his acoustic guitars and began to sing, “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” He learned it in college and hoped that he could remember all the words. He was unprepared for her final gift to him. Luckily muscle memory came through and he sailed through it. He was, however, prepared for her requested encore, having practiced “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” at least a dozen times this week. The previous Saturday night they had attended a showing of “Meet me in St. Louis” and he discovered that she loved that song._

_When he finished, she told him smugly, “I was right. This is not something you just do casually.”_

_He put the guitar back on its stand and said, “Yeah.”_

_“When did you learn to play?” she asked as he returned to the sofa._

_“At fifteen.”_

_“But that’s not when you learned to read music.”_

_“How did you know?” he asked in genuine shock._

_“Your eyes.”_

_“My eyes?”_

_She nodded. “They teach me a lot, Billy. You should just give in now because you know I won’t give up.”_

_“I learned on the piano at three. My mother was my first teacher,” he conceded reluctantly. “I don’t play anymore. I haven’t since I was twelve. I made a promise to myself then, and I’ve kept it. I’ll never play the piano again.”_

_“Something to do with your Dad?” she prompted in a voice that was both soft and serious._

_“You could say that,” he agreed._

_“You should reconsider. You have music in your soul, Will. And knowing you, I imagine you play beautifully. Don’t cheat yourself forever of that part of your gift.”_

MacKenzie was right. He should have done this a long time ago. Now when his soul was restless, he played. When he felt happy and hopeful, he also played. The piano soothed and enhanced such a broader range of emotions than his guitars. Of course, he played them, too. They had been his confidantes throughout the intervening decades of his life. That kind of friendship could never be replaced. At the same time, he welcomed the return of his old companion: a companion that had experienced so much childhood trauma with him; and a friend, who though blameless, he had cast aside before returning to her like a prodigal son who finally found his way home.

This morning he turned his attention to Beethoven. Soon he was lost. After an hour or so, he felt ready for sleep. It wasn’t until Rosa, his housekeeper, came in several hours later that he realized the time and that he was running late for his weekly brunch with Charlie.

XXXXXXXXXX

The adrenaline of rushing to get someplace in a hurry kept Will’s anxiety at bay. But it returned with a vengeance the moment he walked into the AWN building. He felt as unsettled as he had when he left Friday night; maybe even more so. He didn't want to lose what News Night had become with her as its navigator. And the pit in his stomach that he felt the moment Maggie gave him the video file seemed twice as big this morning. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax as he rode the elevator up to the dining room. He then put a smile on his face and greeted Charlie like he had not a care in the world.

However, his façade must have been a complete failure because half way into their meal Charlie asked, "Kiddo, what's bothering you? I asked if you would be putting the breakup of Kris Humphries and Kim Kardashian in the A block and you told me 'Mac hasn't decided yet.'"

Will stared at him in disbelief. "Did I really?"

The older man smiled. "No. I was just checking to see if more than your body is sitting at the table."

"Sorry," Will admitted somewhat sheepishly.

"Kiddo, what is it?"

"Why didn't you tell me about the stabbing?"

"You’re not high again, are you?"

Will ignored the jab. "MacKenzie. You told me she had been shot at, but you never said she was knifed."

“Knifed?”

“October 8, 2009, perhaps in Islamabad. I’ve seen the video. Charlie, if you’ve been keeping this from me…”

“William, I honestly know nothing. What did you see?”

Will explained what was on the video file and what he had learned—or hadn’t learned—from the Internet. As he finished, he saw the same outrage and astonishment in his boss and friend that he had felt.

“I had no idea,” Charlie told him, and Will had no doubt it was true.

“How did this not get out? She’s an American journalist and the daughter of a British diplomat for heaven’s sake.” Will reached in his pocket for a cigarette before remembering where he was—or wasn’t. His position allowed him to circumvent the Clean Air Act, but only in the confines of his office. He’d been trying to cut back (one more thing he promised MacKenzie). But today, the craving felt unbearable.

“Was that a rhetorical question?”

“Yes… No. I don’t know.”

Charlie shrugged. “You know MacKenzie. She would never allow herself to be a story; and I imagine she used every contact she has in two governments to keep it uncovered. You know that….”

“Yes, I do,” Will agreed.

“Why is this so important to you now? It was two years ago. She’s healthy—at least she was when we spoke an hour ago.”

“I don’t know. It just is.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

Will shook his head, a look on his face that suggested the thought never occurred to him. “No.”

“Why not? Are you afraid to bring it up with her?”

“No…” Will began before rethinking his answer when he saw the knowing look on Charlie’s face. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Charlie chuckled in agreement and then said, “She remained embedded for another five months. She’s been back almost eighteen months. I’ve never seen anything to suggest she is suffering from any physical problems or any kind of post-traumatic stress for that matter.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if she’s fooling us and she is suffering, physically or otherwise? The attack was brutal.”

“She’s strong, William… and stubborn.”

“I know, but…” Will shivered as the image of MacKenzie crumpling to the ground washed over him again. He closed his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the image.

“What is it?”

Will contemplated his reply. He couldn’t tell Charlie about the nightmares. How could he when he didn’t understand them himself? Besides, that wasn’t the kind of information he shared with anyone—except under extreme duress (or MacKenzie’s almost mystical powers of persuasion and coaxing). Instead he went with the easy answer. “Nothing.”

“Would you like me to make some discreet calls to CNN to see what I can find out about it?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Charlie changed the subject. “By the way, how’s sorority girl working out?”

“Her name is Jennifer Johnson.”

Charlie smiled. “I know. I was just pushing your buttons.”

“Are you just entertaining yourself or do you really want to know?”

“I want to know.”

“She’s a bright kid. Mac has taken her under her wing—just like all of them.”

“It was ingenious of MacKenzie to bring her here.”

“I agree.”

“She put a great deal of effort into making that happen.”

“Wait… what?”

“William, you can’t be that naïve. Or is it that you choose not to think about how much she cares for you, and the lengths she will go to make you happy and whole?”

“Did you send her to Northwestern?”

“Mac to Northwestern?”

“Yes, as part of your plan to build a new ship. Did you send her there, hoping something would happen like it did?”

“Are you saying she was there?”

It was obvious to Will that he had again caught his boss by surprise. “Yes… she was there.”

“I’ll be damned,” Charlie replied in a thoughtful tone. “I wish that I had thought of it, but that wasn’t me. I admit that I contacted her before, but only about the job, not about Northwestern. That was all her.” He chuckled and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

Charlie leaned forward and put both hands on the table. “When are you going to tell that girl how you feel about her?”

“Charlie…”

“You’re breaking her heart again.”

“I wasn’t the one…”

“You think that you were the only one hurt the last time? That she hasn’t suffered every bit as much as you?”

“I know that. But I wasn’t the one who cheated. I can’t get them out… Look, I can’t turn back time, though you have no idea how much I wish I could.”

“So, don’t look back. Start again. Look forward. Only this time do it better.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Love never is. Isn’t there some line in a baseball movie about how it’s the hard that makes it great? I seem to remember you quoting that on more than one occasion.”

“So…”  
  
“So, it’s also all the messy, human emotions that make it great. Your parents set a crappy example. But it doesn’t have to be like that for you. You could have it all. You could be happy.”

“Don’t you think I’m trying?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure. And now you are dating the gossip queen.”

“How do you?” Will asked in disbelief.

Charlie shrugged. “I know everything. You’re lecturing at Yale this afternoon?”

Will looked at his watch. “Yeah. But I need to check in downstairs first.”

“Go. But leave the vertigo meds behind,” Charlie teased.

“Who needs them with MacKenzie downstairs and you up here.” Will threw back before leaving the table. As he began to walk away, Charlie called his name and he turned back.

“Have you ever wondered what baseball would be like if hitters were only allowed one or even two strikes?”

“What?”

“Just a thought I had while watching the Yankees-Tigers game last night.”

“You watch baseball?”

Charlie chuckled. “On occasion—when warranted.”

 


	4. Weapons of Mass Destruction

MacKenzie sighed loudly as she struggled over her notes from the Genoa interview she and Jerry Dantana did after tonight’s show. Monday’s were always a challenge, but today was worse than usual.

First, Charlie and Jerry were breathing down her throat about Genoa—a story still quite inconceivable despite tonight’s new information. She had spent 26 months in multiple warzones. Never had she seen or heard even a hint concerning the existence, let alone the use, of chemical weapons by the U.S. military.

Next, she received a call from the Romney campaign about Jim giving away an interview with the candidate to another reporter. She pulled him from New Hampshire, of course, nonetheless, she would catch hell for his choice. One more thing she did not need.

And finally, there was Will…. She had no clue where to begin with him. It was just messed up. She momentarily took off her reading glasses and rubbed her temples.

It was late. She was tired. And her thoughts were becoming a jumbled mess. However, it was also quiet which made it an ideal time to review these interview notes before she left for the night. Besides, who knew what tomorrow might look like, or what news might break. She turned her focus back to her notes.

She remained focused until she received a text from her mother which read: “Have you booked your ticket for Christmas yet? Planes do fill up early for holiday travel.” Mac sighed. She should get that ticket. Last year she remained in New York for a myriad of reasons. This year no excuses would be tolerated, particularly as the entire family would be there. Emotionally she would have to suck it up and deal with the reality that her life looked very different the last time she was in England for the holidays.

_December 27, 2006_

_“You’ve been unusually quiet the past hour or so,” MacKenzie said as they walked along the South Bank of the Thames towards Westminster. As a Christmas gift to Will, her father had arranged a special tour of the Tower of London, including the Crown Jewels and the Ceremony of the Keys. Walking along the river at night was one of her favorite things to do in London. Luckily, the temperature was unseasonably mild—and dry._

_“I’m taking in the reality of the history around us.  We just drank a pint at a pub that has been in continuous use since the early 1700s. And the Tower? Oh, that dates back to 1066 A.D. And we have?”_

_“That’s why they call it the New World, Billy. Would it help if I start calling you ‘William, the Conqueror?’”_

_“Smart ass.” He playfully hit her backside and then grabbed her hand. “I like this city. Thanks for today.”_

_“The day is far from over,” she informed him._

_“Oh?”_

_“I want a kiss at the top of the London Eye, and then I want you to make slow love to me in that ridiculous suite you booked for us tonight. We’ve been inundated with my family since we arrived 72 hours ago. We have precious little time together as it is, considering we work in different cities for different networks and the news waits for no man. And I intend to take full advantage of every minute we have alone together.”_

_“Can’t we just skip the Eye and go straight to the second part of your plan?”_

_“No,” she insisted. “The views are spectacular.”_

_“No more spectacular than you naked in my bed.”_

_“Smart ass.”_

_She got her kiss at the top of the Eye overlooking Big Ben and later Will got his fill of her naked in his bed. Since the change in time zones was still wreaking havoc with their body clocks—and there were no pesky parents, siblings, or little people lurking about—afterward they ordered room service and then sat curled up together on the living room sofa talking, dressed only in hotel robes._

_“You seemed surprised by your brother’s big announcement this morning,” Will said to her._

_“A little,” she agreed. “He and Sheila have been dating on and off for years. I'm sure their frequent separations due to his military assignments made things harder. Lately though, he’s been tight-lipped about the relationship, so I probably should have guessed it was coming.”_

_“Do you like her?”_

_“Of course, I do. I’m the one who introduced them. We were in the same college at Cambridge.”_

_“And yet, you’re competitors.”_

_She playfully hit him. “I don’t get competitive. That’s just idiotic.”_

_“And I’m not from Nebraska.”_

_“He’s my only brother. Whatever makes him happy, makes me happy. And I really do like her.”_

_“Okay.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s some rock she’s now sporting on her finger.”_

_She shrugged. “It’s mostly gem stones from my grandmother.”_

_“And?”_

_She shrugged again. “It’s not really my style.”_

_“And what would be your style?”_

_“I don’t know,” she deflected._

_“C’mon, MacKenzie,” he insisted. “You are a complete girly-girl with this kind of stuff, and your attention to detail is mind-blowing. It’s impossible that you haven’t been thinking about engagement rings since you were ten—maybe even five.”_

_“That’s just offensive.”_

_He gave her that tender, indulgent look that always got to her, so she answered the question. “I like simple diamonds….”_

_He laughed._

_“What’s wrong with diamonds?”_

_“Absolutely nothing. I’m a big fan,” he teased, “particularly baseball diamonds.”_

_She rolled her eyes at him._

_“What would you have done with these ‘simple diamonds?’”_

_“Are we really doing this?” she questioned._

_“We’ll call it practice.”_

_“Seriously?”_

_“Yes. Seriously.”_

_“Okay,” she relented. “I saw a ring in an old Grace Kelly movie as a kid. It had a brilliant round center diamond and then smaller ones embedded in the band.”_

_“And it needs to be bigger than your sisters’ and Sheila’s, right?”_

_She grabbed his hand and hauled him off the sofa. “Shut it and take me back to bed. Obviously, your old, addled brain is interfering with your ability to think clearly.”_

_“Yes, your Highness.” He kissed her hard on the mouth before she could argue about being more American than he was. Then he got another helping of her naked in his bed._

MacKenzie chuckled wistfully at the memory. She must have been still caught up in the past because she failed to hear Will come into the room.

“Why are you here?” he asked her. “It’s after midnight.”

“Why are you? Did I miss an alert?” She looked at her phone to make sure it wasn’t on silent.

“No,” he said. “I’m here because you’re here.”

“What?”

He sat down in one of the chairs on the opposite side of her desk. “I talked to Shelly Wexler like you asked.”

“You didn’t get word that we found the guy?”

“I got it.” He shrugged. “It was something that needed to be done.”

Again, she took off her glasses. “For the record, without her source, I never would have asked you. It was a good interview.”

“I could have been easier on her.”

“Yeah,” she agreed with a slight nod of the head. “She’s drowning. But she’s a good kid, trying to do a big thing.”

“She’s not that much younger than you are.”

“Five years makes a huge difference, Will.” MacKenzie leaned back in her chair and thought about everything she had experienced the past five years, lessons learned and re-learned… mistakes made and how she continually worked to make amends for them. Instinctively her hand drifted down to her abdominal scar. “How did the weekend go?” she asked after a moment.

“It was fine.”

She raised a brow at him.

“Okay, it was stressful,” he acknowledged. “But you were right. I enjoyed it. Young Will was a champ during his Holy Communion.”

“Oh, Will!”

“And Matt and I took most of the kids to the Cornhuskers game Saturday night.”

“I suppose you bought all of them new Nebraska jerseys?”

“Is that a real question?”

“And your Dad?”

“He came, too. We kept a polite distance. It is what it is, MacKenzie,” he insisted.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Leave it. It’s not something you can fix.”

“Okay.” She expected him to leave so she put her glasses on yet again, picked up a pen, and returned to her notes. But he stayed. After a long couple of minutes of silence between them, she looked up at him. “What, Billy?”

“Were you really just producing at Northwestern?”

“Northwestern?”

“Yes, Northwestern. Need I remind you?”

She put down her pen. “I remember. But why are….” She was about to ask him why he was only getting around to asking her about it now and then she remembered mid-sentence that he had been in New Haven this afternoon. “Did you lose it again? Do we need to send you back to St. Lucia--without Erin Andrews?”

“No. Today I was simply high,” he threw back.

“I can’t help you there.”

“Answer the question, Mac. You owe me that,” he demanded.

“Of course, I was producing. You were falling all over yourself trying not to say anything. ‘I consider myself a New York Jets fan,’” she mimicked before adding, “You needed the push… and I couldn’t help myself.”

“I see,” he replied.

MacKenzie studied him. Was disappointment what she read in his eyes, or was it something else entirely? What did he expect from her? “Not the answer you wanted? What _do_ you want?” she asked.

“I just thought…”

“What?” she pressed.

“Charlie told me that he didn’t send you there and, you know, never mind.” He sighed and began to leave.

“Will,” she said, and he turned around. “I didn’t go there looking to produce.”

“You didn’t?” He sat back down.

She shook her head. “I had to see you, even if it was only at a distance. Could we work together again? How would it feel to be in the same room with you? Could I handle it? Because the entire time I was away you were never not on my mind.” Hearing herself, she paused with a smirk before continuing, “Yeah, I know. That’s a double negative.”

He smiled.

“You were good that night, Billy. Maybe a little over dramatic. But hey, it’s a good look on you. You took a stand—the audience be damned.”

“Yeah, that turned out well,” he groused. “Who knew talking heads could also be YouTube sensations?”

She chuckled because that fact actually still bothered him. “I am sorry Jenna got stuck in the middle.”

“You made it up to her,” he pointed out.

“It fixed itself.”

“I know more than you think.”

“Do you?” She paused but then decided to press forward with something that had been bothering her, especially after tonight’s walk down memory lane. “Then answer a question for me.”

“Okay.”

“A serious question.”

“And?”

“Why wouldn’t you listen to me that night when I tried to explain what happened with Brian? You had bought a ring, Will, but you wouldn’t hear me out at all.”

He leaned forward. “You lied, Mac. What else was there to hear? And the ring… I bought that in April, not four and a half years ago.”

“What?” She couldn’t be hearing him correctly.

“I knew you would learn about the offer in L.A. and that you would come after me all fired up, so I got the ring for cover. I remembered what you liked from before and I used that to my advantage.”

“You bought a ring worth more money than I care to contemplate to use as a sword against me?”

“Yes—my agent’s assistant did it. But we took it back after. And I get now that…”

She interrupted him. “For six months, you’ve let me believe that ring was real. You’ve used my guilt, and twisted something that is sacred to me and made it into a prop that….” She stood up mid-sentence, pointed to the door, and commanded, ‘Leave, Will.”

He stood, too, and tried to come around the desk. “MacKenzie, I…”

“No.” She cut him off and again she pointed to the door. “Leave now. Your sword found its mark. But don’t ever talk to me about lying again. You’ve lost that right.”

“Fine. Just remember, I wasn’t the one sleeping around.”

“How could I forget?  So, five and a half years later, let's make it official. Brand me with that infamous ‘Scarlet Letter’ all because I was young, stupid, and for a time confused.”

Yet, again, without being aware of it, her hand traced down the edge of her scar. “Do you know the most ironic thing of all, Billy? It’s that once I could see my past clearly, I figured it out: You are the only man I ever loved and the only one I wanted to be with for life. I tried every day for all those months after—and even now—to be the woman you deserve. But that means nothing.”

“And we both know who is to blame.”

“I guess we do. So, okay then….” She shrugged and sat back down at her desk. “Good night,” she added as an afterthought as she pivoted and pretended to check something on her computer, holding her breath until she heard the door shut.

Once she knew he was out of earshot, she spat out a string of expletives that would have impressed any sailor. Eventually she ran out of steam and other emotions took over. She buried her head in her hands and lost the battle to keep tears from flowing down her cheeks.

She allowed herself a few minutes, and then she dried her eyes, blew her nose, and purchased her airline ticket for England for the holidays. Afterwards, she once again refocused on her work. And then the call from Africa came.

xxxxxxxxx

**Tuesday, October 4, 2011**

At 10:30 a.m. Will again entered her office. “Why did I just now hear from Charlie about what happened to Maggie and Gary at that orphanage?”

She looked up from the newspaper in front of her. “You know now. I’ve been busy getting answers.”

“So, that’s all there is to it?” He questioned, hands on his hips.

She returned his stare and his tone of voice. “What else would there be, Will?”

“You haven’t been home?” His tone was softer as he took a seat in a desk chair.

She took off her reading glasses and acknowledged, “No.”

“Are they okay?”

“Physically, they are fine.”

“Mac,” he warned.

“They’re shaken. I’d be more worried if they weren’t. And yes, there will be scars, probably lots of them.” She thought of her own.

“Mac?”

She continued, “Look, I don’t know the extent of it yet. They are being interviewed by local and U.S. authorities and they’ll be back here on Thursday morning.”

“Why would local law enforcement be interviewing them still? Attacks in that area are common place.”

“Apparently the attackers were after Gary’s camera.”

“You should have called me last night.”

“I handled it. What could you have done?”

“I’m a lawyer for heaven’s sake.”

“Here, not in Uganda. And give me a little credit, I contacted the State Department immediately. They have protection.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t explain why you failed to tell me about the call you got last night from the Romney campaign.”

“Lack of courage,” she admitted sheepishly. “And before you yell at me, I already yelled at Jim last night and again this morning. He’s been pulled and will be back first thing tomorrow.”

“Somehow you think that I’m only the managing editor of this news division on paper. Don’t do that,” he said pointedly.

“As if I need reminding of that, considering you can fire me every seven days.” She recognized too late that was a thought better left unspoken at the moment. Before he could explode, she added, “You’re right. At the very least, I should have called you first thing this morning.”

“You should have called me when the call came in. I wasn’t asleep.”

She nodded.

“After the pitch meeting, you are going home for a few hours. Don can handle anything that comes up. You look like hell.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it, MacKenzie. You need a break,” he insisted. “And one more thing, I want an entire block tonight devoted to the NBA lockout and the cancellation of the pre-season that was announced this morning.”

“What?”

“Pro-basketball, Mac.”

“What?”

“It’s a big deal and it has a national economic impact. Sloan agrees, and we can work her into the segment.”

“What is it with the two of you and bouncing balls?” she complained.

“What is it with you and shoes?”  
  
“Those are fighting words, Billy.”

He smiled but then turned serious. “MacKenzie, about last night…”

“Not today,” she pleaded.

“Okay,” he agreed.  "Can I at least say I'm sorry?"

"You can say it."  She let her voice trail off, fighting to keep the edginess she felt at bay.  "Heaven knows, I've said it often enough."

“Let’s fill in everyone about Gary and Maggie and do the pitch meeting where you will lose badly on the NBA segment. Then you are going home.”

She nodded and followed him out of the room.

But despite a few hours of sleep, Mac was relieved when the show came down that night (although she reluctantly had to admit that Will and the others put together a truly interesting segment on the NBA while she was at home during the afternoon).

She was about to leave for the night when Sloan walked into her office and said, “Are you ready to go?”

“Where are we going?”

“To see _The Help_. We’ve rescheduled three times already.”

Mac studied her colleague and friend and then conceded with more enthusiasm than she felt, “Let’s do it. After the past 24 hours, I need a diversion.”

 


	5. Kicking Against the Pricks

**Wednesday, October 5, 2011**

The vibe felt strange as Will strolled through the newsroom.  Then again, his own vibe was off.  He spent half of every night trying to get restful sleep and the other half playing the piano in an attempt to soothe and distract himself so that he could get that sleep. The nightmares felt particularly overwhelming the past two days:  more jumbled, but always ending with the thrust of a long blade and MacKenzie crumpled out of view, only now as she fell, she reached towards something bright off to the side. 

He should not have gone on the attack with her Monday night.  It happened instinctively.  There was no reason for him to confess about the ring.  No purpose was served by the telling.  On some days he forgot the ring was there; while the rest of the time, he wished things were different between them.  But he should not have taken out his frustration on her.   

What happened in Africa had to be a contributor to the increased intensity of his dreams; and so was MacKenzie.   Her tone of voice about her time in war zones seemed different; and the way her hand at times brushed down the left side of her abdomen, did not escape his notice.  Had those things been always been there since she returned?  How deep _were_ her own scars?

Suddenly it felt critical that he find her.  He left his bag on a chair and re-entered the newsroom.  He scanned the room from left to right, but she was not there.  He checked her office.  It was empty.  “Jenna,” he yelled as he returned to his office.

Quickly, she appeared.  “Where’s Mac?”  he asked her.

“She’s not coming in.”

“Why not?” he asked in disbelief.

She shrugged.  “I only know what Jim told the staff.” 

He growled.  MacKenzie told him yesterday morning that Jim would be back today. She said nothing though about taking the day off herself.  “I want to see Jim right now.  And I want two ice cold—and I mean ice cold—Diet Coke cans.”

“Hard night?” she replied with a small smirk she could not hide. 

“Yes,” he grudgingly agreed as he took a seat at his desk while she quickly fled the room.  It unnerved him that she was figuring him out so quickly.  Mac’s doing, of course.  By the time he checked his phone to see if he missed a call or message from her, Jim had joined him.  “Where’s MacKenzie?” 

“I don’t know.”

“How can you above all people not know?” he insisted.

“Charlie came down a few hours ago, told me she was taking some time off and instructed me to fill in.  That’s all I know.”

Will’s eyes narrowed.  “What does that even mean?  You didn’t ask him for an explanation?”

“No.”

Will stared at him and watched Jim’s eyes dart to floor.  Then he surmised, “Because Charlie took you apart over the Romney interview.” 

“Yes,” Jim answered, his eyes still fixed towards the carpet. 

“You haven’t called MacKenzie?”

Jim shook his head and said, “No.”

“Because you are also in her dog house.  Well, let me tell you Jimmie Boy, you are in my dog house, too, and I’m a lot bigger and meaner.”

“I know.”  This time Jim looked him in the eyes.

Will had to admire the kid for standing there and taking it like a man.  “We’re not done talking about your screw up.  I’ve got _so_ much more to say.”

“I know.” 

“But not today.  Get out of here.”  Will gestured towards the door with an additional warning.  “Tonight’s show better be smoother than a newborn’s butt. You better bring your A game all flipping day.”

When Will could not get MacKenzie on the phone after several attempts, he marched upstairs to Charlie’s office.  Without any pretense of decorum, he asked, “Where the hell is MacKenzie?”

Charlie did not rise to his bait or return his sense of urgency.  “William Duncan McAvoy.  That name is a mouthful.  Things a little rough this morning?”

“Where’s Mac?” Will pressed.

“I don’t know.”  Charlie shrugged.  “She called early this morning and asked for time off.  I gave it to her.”

“Without asking me?”

“Yes.”

“Is she sick?”

Charlie answered with casual evasiveness, “She didn’t sound sick.  She seemed… weary.” 

Will glared at him.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You’re on your own with this one.”  Charlie stood and headed towards the door.  “Good luck down there.  I’m late for a meeting upstairs.”

Will tried to reach Mac again, and then again on the way downstairs.   After 45 minutes and several additional texts and calls, he shut the door to his office, and out of desperation—or perhaps temporary insanity—he reached out to the one person he knew without a doubt would have answers to MacKenzie’s disappearance and perhaps his nightmares.

When the once-familiar voice answered, he said, “Sir,”

“Is Mac okay?”

“This is…”

“I know who you are, Will,” Patrick McHale again interrupted.  “Is MacKenzie okay?  Has there been an accident?”

“Why would you?”

“We have not spoken in four and a half years. But the man I knew would take it upon himself to be the one who called if something happened to my daughter; and knowing my daughter, you are likely listed in her phone as her emergency contact.”

Will was momentarily rendered speechless.  Finally, he said, “Sir, I….”

“We’ve covered this ground before,” Lord McHale gently interjected.  “My name is Patrick.  Is MacKenzie all right?”

“Yes… I think.”

“You think?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet today, but nothing has happened to her.”

“I see.  Then what’s on your mind?” 

Will sighed in a failing attempt to gather his thoughts.  “I’m calling to ask you....”  He fumbled before finally just blurting out, “Is MacKenzie okay?  I saw the video of the stabbing a few days ago.  I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” the older man told him sincerely.

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes, many times.  But not in a long time.”

Will replied, “Is she okay?”

“You haven’t asked her?”

Will hesitated and then conceded, “No.”

“We mortals do like to ‘kick against the pricks.’”

“Sir?”

“Acts 9, William.  An intriguing chapter.”  Before Will could respond, Lord McHale continued, “We were most fortunate with MacKenzie.  It was a deep flesh wound.  Another half an inch in any direction and we may not be having this conversation.  There was a fairly serious infection that developed. Again, we got lucky.  We brought her home immediately and she recovered quickly afterward.”

“Why did you let her go back there?” Will asked in disbelief. 

“Trust me.  We wanted her to remain in England.  Her mother begged and pleaded, as did the rest of the family.   In the end, _I_ had no power to stop her.”

“And emotionally?” 

“How do you think she is?”

“I thought that I knew, but now that I know, I don’t know.”

“Brain’s a little fuzzy today.  Better indulge in a few extra Diet Cokes before the broadcast.”

“There’s a six pack on my desk,” Will threw back, “along with a full pack of cigarettes.” 

“Nasty habit." 

“I know,” Will acknowledged.  Again, he asked, “Is she okay?”

“There’s an old maxim that proclaims, ‘A woman is like a tea bag—you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water.’”

“Eleanor Roosevelt,” Will stated. 

“Perhaps… The true origins of the sentiment are unclear. More likely, it’s a Nineteenth Century Irish proverb.  We, Irish, are a wise but stubborn lot. Nonetheless, my youngest daughter looks for hot water and will always ‘march into hell for a heavenly cause.’”

“That one I know.”  Will relaxed.

‘I should hope so, considering your mission to civilize.”

He laughed.

“Will, I’m sure MacKenzie’s diplomatic skills left much to be desired when she blurted out about what happened with Brian—though she does try, and her intentions are always pure.  All the same, I meant what I told you at that Orioles game. For the record, I’ve never said that about anyone else, before or since—though _you_ are still a Republican nit wit.”   

Will was startled by what he heard but recognized that this brilliant diplomat also handed him a way out.  He finished the original commentary by asking, “And my views on China?”

“You’re showing potential—for a Yank.”

“That’s high praise.  I must be doing something right.”

“Don’t run while you are still learning to walk.”

“Yes, sir.”  The lawyer in Will—or was it the journalist—or perhaps just the man—could not resist the opportunity to ask a follow-up question, “May I ask what she told you about our break up?”

“For two and a half years, she said nothing except it was her fault.  Finally, she told me everything while she recuperated from the stabbing.  We kept it between the two of us—at least until she sent out that infamous email seventeen months ago.”

Will chuckled wryly. 

“MacKenzie is fiercely loyal to those she loves.  She is also the most Catholic of all my children. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.” 

He thought about that for a moment and found no ready reply.  Instead he said, “I am sorry that I didn’t know about what happened in Pakistan. I should have known.”

“You weren’t meant to know, particularly about the video.  That was the point, William.” 

“Why would she go to such lengths to keep me in the dark?”

“She has her reasons.  I can’t tell you more.  It’s not my story, and _my_ loyalty is to _her_.”

Once again Will was left speechless. Eventually, he admitted, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know, son,” Lord McHale acknowledged with apparent understanding.

Will asked, “How did you recognize my voice so quickly?”    

“I view the show regularly on the Internet. Modern technology has its uses….  I don’t know what the true nature of your relationship is with MacKenzie. However, don’t we want the same thing?  Otherwise, you would not have called me.” 

Will remained still for several minutes after he hung up the phone, relieved to a degree, yet perplexed by MacKenzie’s absence today and the course of his conversation with her father.  He replayed his talk with Patrick McHale in his head (he still could not think of Mac’s father by only his given name), hoping for reassurance, and searching for answers he was supposed to find.  Instead, he found new questions.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.  “Come,” he called out. 

Jim walked into the room and said, “Steve Jobs died.  How do you want to handle it?”

“What does….” Instinctively his first thought was to ask for MacKenzie’s opinion.  He checked his phone again.  Nothing.   He almost took Mac’s silence out on her protégé when he recognized how tentative and uncomfortable Jim appeared.  He also heard MacKenzie’s voice in his head urging him to be their leader. 

After a deep, calming breath he said, “Rough day to transition back into the newsroom, particularly since we’re short-handed.  And I have been zero help to you.  Get everyone together in the conference room and let’s talk it through.” 

After Jim left, it dawned on him what really unnerved him about Mac’s absence:  her silence and that she would not be in his ear tonight, guiding him and challenging him, deftly managing every contingency that may arise, holding him accountable when he veered off-course, and complimenting him without condescension when he got it right.  She was both his inquisitor and his muse.

The connection between them—as if they talked face to face—instead across different rooms—existed from the first.  Despite everything that transpired between them, their symmetry remained something ethereal.  Wasn’t that why they could work together seamlessly regardless of where they stood personally?  Where the hell was she and why wouldn’t she answer him?

 


	6. Mudville and Damascus

Will spent the rest of the afternoon helping to put together a new show. He was at his desk, working on his script and eating a sandwich, when Sloan burst in to the room, back from a conference in Philadelphia.

“Steve Jobs tonight?” she asked.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Talk to Jim. Work out whatever you want with him.”

“Jim?” She poked her head back into the newsroom before turning back to him. “Where’s MacKenzie?”

“I don’t know. She’s not here.”

“Not here?” Sloan asked, walking towards him.

“She’s apparently taking time off,” he replied, his voice growing more agitated with every syllable. “You obviously have not talked to her either.”

Sloan glared at him.

"What?" he asked in response to her look.

“You are a total ass. Just when I think you are the good guy she believes you to be, you do something despicable. This is your fault.”

He stood and went and closed the office door. “Is this about the ring?” he asked quietly.

“What ring?”

‘Nothing.” Will turned away from her, and as he took a seat at the small table in his office, he breathed a sigh of relief that she knew nothing about Monday night. Then again, MacKenzie would never talk about something so personal between them. He should have known better than to ask.

Sloan continued, “I thought that what you told Brian was as cheap a shot as you could inflict on her, but…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Telling Brian that you don’t want her.”

“I never said that,” he denied.

“I heard him throw it in her face in front of most of the staff. You humiliated her, especially coming from him of all people. She stood in and just took it, defending you the entire time. But this… This is so much worse.”

“What is ‘this?’”

“Nina Howard,” she exclaimed. “You are dating Nina Howard.”

“Oh?” Charlie had spies seemingly everywhere but would never betray his trust.

“I saw the two of you at the movie last night, William.”

“And you told MacKenzie?” He pointed his finger at her with a scowl. “This is your fault, not mine. Not that I need to explain myself to you or to her.”

“Not to me, maybe, but absolutely to her. And I didn’t say anything to her, you jackass. She was with me.”

Will swore under his breath. “What did she say?”

“I don’t know. Something about a favored land and shouting children.”

This declaration blew him away. “You’re sure? What exactly did she tell you?”

“She was thinking aloud,” Sloan insisted. “She was in shock, Will. She quickly put a smile on her face and pretended nothing was wrong. But her initial reaction said everything.” She paused and shook her head in disgust. Then she asked, “How many times do you get to throw at her head and think it’s justified? How many of pounds of flesh are ever going to be enough to exact your revenge?”

Before Will could respond, yet alone absorb what Sloan said, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called out, somewhat impatiently.

“Sarah Palin just announced she’s not running for president on the Mark Levin radio show. Martin and Jim are listening to the interview,” Jenna told him.

He looked at the clock on the wall and swore. Hastily, he returned to the newsroom.

  
XXXXXXXXX

Will settled himself at the anchor desk with twenty seconds to spare, having just finished his script for the third time today. He quickly put in his ear piece, turned on his microphone pack, and double-checked his notes.

“You clear on the rundown, Billy? It’s going to be tight,” he heard in his ear.

Startled, he asked, “Where the hell have you been?” He looked straight through the center camera to the control room where he knew MacKenzie was also looking at him.

“I can give Jim the headset if you’d rather.” He could feel the intensity of her returning stare.  
  
“Don’t you dare move from that spot.”

“Then do exactly what I say. Try not to trip over yourself making Palin into a Nobel Prize winner.”

“Hmph,” he grumbled, unable to come up with a suitable retort. However, he immediately relaxed, and the corners of his mouth reflexively turned up in a smile. “Let’s do this,” he told her.

Will had no time to assimilate his conversation with Sloan during the broadcast. Reactions from the Palin announcement and Steve Jobs’ death continued to come in, and the death toll from the monsoons in Asia continued to rise. Though she had been absent all day, Mac still handled everything with ease.

As he signed off for the night, he heard her say, “Great show everybody.”

“Can we talk?” he asked her quietly, still gazing directly through the lens of Camera 1.

“It’s nine o’clock. My hour is up.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“Good show,” she answered flatly. He heard the sound of her headset being removed before her microphone switched off.

That she spoke with zero emotion was eerie. He hurriedly turned off his own mic pack and charged out of the studio towards the control room door. But she beat him there and he found himself staring at her back. “MacKenzie?” he called out.

She turned around and even in the dim light of the corridor, he saw the hurt in her eyes. Arms wrapped across her chest and tightly around her notebook, she told him, “I’m trying, Will…. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her sincerely as he walked to where she stood. She did not believe him. In awe he watched as she uncrossed her arms and changed her demeanor to some paradoxical combination of resignation and resolution.

“Tomorrow I’ll try something else,” she replied. “Tonight, though, I have nothing more to give you.”

She turned and walked away from him. As she entered the newsroom, her chin rose. She complimented everyone she passed on the day’s work and deftly deflected any questions about her earlier absence. To them, she appeared completely at ease. But he saw how tightly the fingers of her right hand were clenched, and the slight hunch in her shoulders.

After a few minutes, he, too, walked across the room to his office with Sloan’s words ringing through his ears: favored land and shouting children. Those words meant nothing to Sloan. They meant everything to him. Apparently, they meant something to MacKenzie, too. She had no advance warning last night, and no time to contemplate what she would say, and yet, she immediately remembered.

_March 31, 2007_

_Will hung up the phone in shock as MacKenzie walked into the small kitchen of her D.C. apartment. She dragged him out of bed at sunrise this morning to walk through the cherry blossoms around the tidal basin before hordes of people descended on the area. Afterward, they ate breakfast and then returned to the apartment for a leisurely morning spent mostly back in bed. He awoke first and was reading the Saturday Washington Post when the call came._

_“What’s wrong?” she asked him almost immediately._

_“Huh?”_

_“You just got bad news.” She gestured to his phone. “What is it?”_

_“That was my best friend, Josh Williams. His father, Marshall, was killed this morning by a tractor-trailer that ran a red light. I need to fly to Lincoln tomorrow. They are having the funeral on Monday.”_

_“Oh, Billy!”_

_In an instant, he found himself held tight, his head against her chest as he remained seated at her small table. Then she took him by the hand and led him into the living room._

_As they settled facing one another on the love seat, her hand still clutching his own, he said, “He used to call me ‘Billy,’ too, usually when he wanted more out of me than I was giving, but always with great affection… just like you.”_

_“And that’s why you let me get away with calling you that?” she asked with a sweet smile._

_“Yes.”_

_“You were close to him.”_

_“I spent so much time at their house that he often teased me about being ‘Will Williams.”_

_She chuckled. “Tell me about him.”_

_“He was a lawyer at a big Omaha firm. He also had a small farm. Sometimes on school holidays, he would take Josh and me to court with him.”_

_“And you decided to go to law school because of him.”_

_He nodded. “He was a busy man. But his work never detracted from what was most important to him: his family. He has three sons. One, two years older than Josh and me, and the other, two years younger. He was our baseball coach from tee-ball through high school.”_

_“He sounds wonderful.”_  
  
_“The greatest motivator I’ve ever known.” He sighed before continuing, “And in surprising ways. From the beginning, he was determined that we would be more than farm boys. He wanted us to give every ounce we had on the diamond and in the classroom. Discipline, effort and focus. He drilled those concepts into our heads over and over again.”_

_“What’s your favorite memory of him?”_

_He thought about that for a moment and then said, “A bunch of ten-year-old boys—and one girl—throwing the ball around the infield as he directed while reciting Casey at the Bat by Earnest Lawrence Thayer.”_

_“Truly?”_

_“Truly.”_

_“Do you remember any of it?” she asked._

_He began reciting:_

_The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:_  
_The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,_  
_And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,_  
_A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game._

 _A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest_  
_Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;_  
_They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—_  
_We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat._

_He continued through the last stanza:_

_Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,_  
_The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;_  
_And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,_  
_But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out._

_When he finished, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. With a soft gaze, she said, “That’s a heavy cautionary tale for young kids.”_

_He shrugged. “It’s baseball. We loved it.  The Disney cartoon version made us laugh. Coach used it to keep us humble and to teach us to take each pitch seriously.”_

_“And reciting it while you played catch?”_

_“It built team unity. Helped strengthen our mental focus while developing solid fundamentals—muscle memory.  Of course, none of us realized that until we became adults.”_

_Her look turned thoughtful. After a minute, she asked rhetorically, “Josh asked you to deliver the eulogy, didn’t he?”_

_“How did you know?”_

_She smiled. “Your eyes. You’ve been organizing your thoughts.”_

_“I guess I have,” he agreed._

_“You would make a terrific coach, too.”_

_He tilted his head in puzzlement. “You really think so?”_

_She answered without hesitation. “I know that the idea of being responsible for children terrifies you. But you forget that I’ve seen you with your nieces and nephews. They adore you. Let me come with you to Lincoln. I want to place flowers on your mother’s grave, meet your sister and her family… and your father if you will let me.” She had recently met his other twin sister and her family, who resided in Texas, when they came to New York City for spring break._

_He hesitated._

_“It’s time, Will.”_

_“Okay,” he acquiesced. “But no guarantees with my dad.”_

_“Deal,” she readily agreed. “I need some exercise. Let’s go.”_

_“Now?” he asked. Reluctantly, he allowed her to pull him up from the sofa._

_“Right now. In the bedroom… unless you are too old or too tired.”_

_He playfully grabbed her around the waist. “Those are fighting words.”_

_“No, Billy. Those are loving words. There will be joy in Mudville today.”_

The honking of a horn startled Will. He looked around and realized he was almost to his apartment. So caught up in this memory, he had no recollection of changing his clothes, leaving the AWM building, or getting into the car.

For a long time after he broke up with MacKenzie, the emotions from that day, and of their relationship, taunted and tortured him. He found himself repeatedly quoting the last stanza of Thayer’s poem:

 _Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,_  
_The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;_  
_And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,_  
_But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out._

Eventually heartache and despair lost out to anger and bitterness. He shut down those joyful—hopeful—memories. And then MacKenzie walked into his newsroom, turned his world upside down, and the war in his head and heart began anew.

As he walked into his building and rode the elevator up to his apartment, he could not get that quote out of his head along with MacKenzie’s instantaneous recall of it—like it was ingrained permanently upon her soul, too. After their breakup, had it become her own cautionary tale? Had she memorized it because there was no other way to give expression to her own feelings? Did the memory of the day Coach died haunt her like it did him? He had never truly considered their past from her perspective.

Then again, she was the one who cheated, not him. She was the one who lied about it by omission for months while he fell deeper and deeper in love with her. How was he supposed to forgive and forget?

He wanted to, though—more than anything in the world. Almost for the first time since the night Bin Laden was killed, he could freely admit that to himself. The sheer panic and desperation he felt at her silent absence today was proof of this yearning. Patrick McHale was right. He would not have called England otherwise.

In truth, recognition began to come while he was speaking with the OWS girl Monday night. That’s why he returned to the newsroom once he confirmed that MacKenzie was there. However, enlightenment soon got hijacked by habitual defensiveness as he went on the attack with her. She deserved more from him. There was no justification for his behavior that night, or the way he added to that hurt last night. Things had to change—he had to change. But how?

He poured himself a large glass of whiskey and drained it. Then he poured himself another. He may not understand the practical—internal—process of forgiveness, however, he could do one thing tonight. He should have done it earlier. He pulled out his phone and was relieved when it went to voicemail:  “Listen, I can’t do this anymore. I thought that I could, but I can’t. You were right…. I’m truly sorry.”

He finished his second drink and then took a long, hot shower. Then he sat down at his piano. He was tempted to play every sappy, romantic showtune he possessed in his music collection. He was equally tempted to play bluesy jazz on his guitars. In the end, however, he turned to Chopin’s nocturnes. Eventually the combination of the whiskey, the soothing melodies, and the stress of the day worked their magic and he was able to fall asleep.

Dreamless sleep, however, soon turned into his now familiar nightmare of MacKenzie in Pakistan. Only tonight, other things also starred in his dreams, such as the devastation in her eyes when he confessed about the ring. Eventually, the scene changed again.  This time to MacKenzie laying on her back in the batter’s box of his high school baseball park, bruised and bloodied, while he stood on the pitcher’s mound. She sat up and told him, “I struck out again, didn’t I? I’ll try harder tomorrow.” Then she passed out from the wound to her head.

He awoke to a sharp pain in his chest. Breathing heavily, he sat up. As he did so, he began to comprehend what her father meant when he said, “She is the most Catholic of all my children.”

Will turned on the light and grabbed his King James Bible from the shelf on his bedside table. He turned to Acts 9 and began to read. At first, he didn’t see the point. He only knew that MacKenzie’s father, who carefully measured every word, particularly in delicate conversations, had pointed him to this particular New Testament chapter. Will read the chapter a few more times before narrowing his study to the first 18 verses. As he read and reread the story, slowly it began to speak to him in a deeply personal way.

He checked the time on his phone and was surprised to discover an email from Patrick McHale. He opened it and read, _“It occurred to me this morning that you might find this piece written by one of my wife’s distant 18th Century ancestors helpful._ ” Will clicked open the attachment. He had never heard of John Sheffield.  MacKenzie had never mentioned him.  But as he read the old poem, he recognized that this was the final piece to the puzzle:  The answer to the question that had plagued him all his life—particularly since that fateful May day, and again since April 20 of last year—was, in fact, not complicated at all.

A monsoon of regret washed over him. However, miraculously it was followed by a sense of deep peace as he saw the path ahead. He, like Saul, had been found on the road to Damascus. He put his phone down, turned off the light, and finally he slept.

 

 


	7. October 7th

**Thursday, October 6, 2011**

“Good morning.”

Surprised, Mackenzie looked up from one of the newspapers she was scanning.  Drained from the events of the week, she wanted a quiet, Will-free, stress-free morning to gear up for this moment (which she hoped would happen later this afternoon—and certainly not first thing this morning).  “It’s 8 a.m.  What are you doing, Billy?” she asked him gruffly.

He sat down in one of her chairs.  “I thought we could ride out to JFK together to pick-up Gary and Maggie. You are planning on meeting them?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I’ve got it covered.”

He ignored her obvious dismissal of him. “We can stop for breakfast on the way and talk about tomorrow night’s show,” he suggested. 

“Now’s not a good time. I’m behind.”  What she almost said to him—what she wanted to say to him, was, “Why aren’t you at breakfast with the gossip queen?  Isn’t that where you want to be?”  Instead she bit her lip and returned to her reading. 

He walked around her desk and perched on its edge. She put her reading glasses on top of the newspapers and instinctively scooted her chair back.

“I got taken off the 9/11 coverage, but tomorrow’s anniversary is equally important.”

“Really, Billy?  Because I never would have guessed.”

“That sounded trite and that’s not what I intended,” he replied without a hint of impatience or defensiveness.  He took a deep breath and then continued, “Mac, I can’t do this show without you. Together we can put together a broadcast that’s more nuanced and informative than anything else that will air. You know that’s true.  Help a guy out?”

As he quietly pleaded with her, she looked up at him and saw only gentleness in his blue eyes.  It wasn’t a fleeting glimpse either, or one tinged with other emotions.   Only one time since coming to ACN had she witnessed anything like it:  Valentine’s Day. 

She understood it in that unguarded moment because of the deep significance to him in the title “Coach,” something far beyond the _Rudy_ analogy that the others saw in her gift to him. On countless nights since, she clung to the memory of that look and that embrace, and the hope that love and forgiveness could finally win the day.

Now, however, she was confused.  She had to look away to pull herself together. Then something else unexpected happened.  She felt his hand lightly cup her chin. It was the first time that he touched her since the night Bin Laden was killed--and he was high at the time.  He gently raised her head to again meet his eyes.

“MacKenzie…  I promise that I'll be who you want me to be.”

The softness in his eyes was the same only now he dipped his own chin with a slight tilt as he spoke.  The gesture was so achingly tender that she was powerless to resist him.  “Okay,” she conceded, her voice unintentionally breathless.

 

XXXXXXXXX

**Friday, October 7, 2011**

_“When it comes to the war on terror, over and over again time has demonstrated there are no easy solutions.  For every step we take forward, we seem to take at least a partial step backward.  We hear that freedom demands sacrifice so often, it frequently rings hollow in our ears.”_

“Mac, he’s gone off prompter.”

MacKenzie turned around from where Don was asking her a question. “Technical problem?”

Herb shook his head. 

She knew better than to interrupt Will tonight.  Besides there was a minute left in the broadcast; and she was tired.  She turned her attention to him as he continued: 

_“Regardless of how we may feel individually about the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq—or any other conflict for that matter, unless you’ve come face to face with that sacrifice, it is easy to discount how costly and painful freedom’s demands can be.  Thousands of American and British families, and countless others, bear living testimony to that sacrifice every day._

_The best journalists won’t talk about themselves.  Their job, they doggedly maintain, is to perform the vital chore of keeping the people informed, regardless of personal risk.  They refuse to be the story themselves.  But journalists, too, have been killed, captured, or severely injured covering these conflicts throughout the past 10 years, including one of our own._

_Tonight, I pay tribute to her, although she will likely never forgive me for doing so.  Two years ago, she was brutally stabbed while embedded with U.S. troops in Afghanistan and Pakistan.  She was lucky to survive; and we, who know her, love her, and work with her, are grateful every day that she did._

_She is our leader._

_She is our muse._

_In moments of crises, when storms rage, she personifies Ernest Hemingway’s definition of courage._

_And she will always march into hell for a heavenly cause._

_May God bless everyone who bears the scars of September 11 thand October 7th.  May we always remember with gratitude those who serve and those who have sacrificed.  Let us defend vigorously the rights and freedoms we hold dear.  But let us also fight for peace with equal might, determination, and with all the strength that God can give us.”_

Mac felt the astonished stares of the others in the control room. Even Jim seemed surprised.  “He’s an idiot, a complete moron,” she told the room.  “Really, it was nothing,” she insisted.  “I’m completely fine.”

However, she, too, was flabbergasted.  She sat down on the nearest empty stool in the back of the control room.  How and when did Will find out?  Except for the singular email she sent to him after the attack, she and her father put a cement lid on what happened. 

Will had never so much mentioned it to her in passing, including during the intensive prep work they had done over the past two days for tonight’s show.  He must have known.  Is that why his demeanor with her had been softer—with no trace of resentment?  But how did he find out?  By his own admission, he had disregarded all communication from her after their split. 

Yesterday, he was everything that he promised to her and more. Together, over breakfast, they filled in the rundown for tonight’s show and pinned down what they still needed from their staff.  Pleasant, attentive, provocative and funny, he was self-effacing at points, and utterly serious in other moments.  He was the Will she first came to love all those years ago. 

As they met Maggie and Gary, he was warm and empathetic.  When Maggie mentioned they had been upgraded into First Class on the flight from Dubai to New York, it took only a glance in Will’s direction for her to realize that he was responsible. On the drive back to the city, he explained to all three of them what would happen with H.R. that afternoon; and he remained with Maggie and Gary during the debrief, insisting that he was the best person to do so and that she was most needed in the newsroom.

He bought pizza for the staff last night after the show while they spent more time preparing for tonight.  Afterward, he rode with her downstairs and waited until she was safely settled in a cab.  “Tomorrow will be a good day,” he told her as he shut the car door.  Something in his voice filled her with warmth.  Surprisingly, she slept better than she had in days.

While Will did not show his face in the newsroom today until mid-afternoon, when he did, she was immediately handed his copy for review.  It was brilliant. Obviously, however, part of that script was a ruse.  She _should_ march into his office and give him hell for making her the capstone of tonight’s show.  But as a tear involuntarily filled her eye, she lost any desire to do so.  His sincerity and the way those expressive blue eyes that she loved so much seemed to speak straight through the camera only to her, overwhelmed her. 

Of course, now there was Nina.  Lying, scheming, bitchy Nina.  She wanted to hate him for Nina.  She tried hard to do so on Wednesday after the shock wore off in the midst of a sleepless night.  But that particular emotion never gained the traction she desired, or really any traction at all.  She was left with only the dual-pain of humiliating embarrassment and hopelessness. 

But after a call that evening from her oldest sister and twelve-year-old niece and namesake, Morgan, from Hong Kong with the wonderful news that they, along with her brother-in-law and two of her four nephews, would be spending three weeks in D.C. in November, she decided to end her pity party for the day and go back to work.  Though Kate was almost thirteen years older, their bond was deep.  Kate was calm, wise and encouraging; and she had a way of helping Mac find perspective, just by how she approached life and love.  Kate never pressed her to talk about Will.  Nonetheless, Mac always felt better after talking with her.

Why couldn’t she hate Will?  She had been asking herself that for two days now.  She wanted to scream at him: “How can you so easily overlook Nina’s machinations with Reese to get you fired and ruin your livelihood—and your reputation—when you are miles away from forgiving me, no matter how hard I try, even four and a half years later? And she’s a lot older than I am, too.” 

She took a deep breath, and then a few more.  And then, a moment of clarity struck.  Maybe the answer to both questions was the same:  Nina meant nothing to him, so her wrongs against him mattered little to him (though he obviously was attracted to the woman—and her legs).  Damn those legs!

Still, how stupid could he be?  And how many ways could he find to punish her?  Although, nothing could be worse than the double-whammy of the fake engagement ring and Nina. 

She reminded herself constantly that the incident with the ring actually occurred six months ago, and that it was better to know the truth no matter how deep the sting.  In truth, however, these affirmations offered little solace.  The ring had been a lovely dream, and she missed the hope it held out to her (particularly with Nina—and her legs—now thrown into the middle of things).

“Mac? What are you still doing in here?” Jim asked her.

She looked at him and forced a little smile.  “Doing a mental recap,” she lied, even though she was alone in the room.  “Making sure there is nothing else I want to tell Don before Elliot’s show.”

“Come to Hang Chew’s with us.”

“Not sure I’m up to it tonight.”

“Will’s right, you know,” he told her.  “You are our leader.  It will be good for Maggie and Gary to have you there.  You could probably use a drink… and I’ll let you take me apart over the Romney interview.”

“Let you, my arse.  You will regret ever hearing the name ‘Romney.’”  Her heart really wasn’t in the threat, however, and he knew it.

“Mac?” he asked, his tone reflective. 

“Yeah?”

“Remember that gear you insisted that Will has?”

“Yeah?”

“This was it tonight—and it wasn’t just work.”

“You’re a big softie, you know.”

“So, you keep telling me.  Apparently, Will is, too.”

“Never, ever say that out loud again.  Although you can remind me on tough days when we are alone.  You are not off the hook though.”  She pointed her finger at him.  “You are still going to catch hell for New Hampshire.”

“How about if I buy the drinks instead?”

“Will’s going to buy the drinks for the stunt he pulled tonight—if he’s around” (and not with the lying witch she added silently to herself).  “If he’s not, be prepared to buy me a bottle of the most expensive Scotch in the joint.”

“Oh, gosh,” Jim lamented.

XXXXXXXXXX

At Hang Chew’s MacKenzie watched with pride from the edge of the group as her staff bantered freely with each other over drinks about work and life and love.  They all seemed so young.  It pleased her how attentive they were to Maggie, despite her protestations.  Surprisingly, Gary was not with the gang.  Neither was Will. 

Everyone was being overly solicitous of her, too.  Particularly Sloan, who had been like a watchful German Shepherd, making sure she was kept from the would-be intruders she seemed to think lurked around every corner after their discovery of Will with Nina. However, Sloan did not want to spare her from her own interference.   Sloan wanted to talk about the situation, and in great detail.  Mac gave her a short account of the attack.  But she would not talk about Will with her—or with anyone for that matter.  Will was a topic far too intimate for any discussion with anyone except in broad generalities (and except when her father forced her hand).

After a time, she excused herself with the pretext of another drink. Instead she found a dark, quiet seat removed from everyone.  She needed space to clear her head (and a few minutes to sulk).  She had shrugged off enquiries from everyone about Will’s whereabouts.  However, her own disappointment at his absence was acute.  Despite what she said to Jim, she fully expected he would be here tonight.

Today _was_ a significant date for her as would be tomorrow.  Will must believe that he had fulfilled his responsibility to her simply by being his best in the chair tonight.  He owed her no more. Repeatedly, he made that clear.  But despite his continuing anger with her about Brian, and in spite of Nina, she hoped he would be here tonight with the staff, and for her.  Obviously, she was wrong. 

Thoughts of her birthday tomorrow made matters worse. Professionally, she was happy. She loved her work and her colleagues.  It challenged her daily and she was proud of what they were accomplishing.  Personally, though, she felt like a failure.  She wanted a husband—and children—and she was nowhere. In fact, she was further away from those desires than ever.  Thirty-two felt so old.  Her mother and her three sisters all had multiple children by this age.  She didn’t even have a pet.

What would her life look like now if she had returned to England instead of the U.S. eighteen months ago?  That’s what her parents and most of her family wanted.  She wanted to be here then—had insisted upon it.  But now? 

Maybe she should reconsider and just accept that recompense and reconciliation were not in the cards for her with Will, regardless of time and her best efforts.  She could make a couple calls and have a job lined up anytime she wanted in London. Her two older sisters there were already talking about fixing her up over the Christmas break.  Would that be such a bad thing?  A fresh start could be good.  Professionally it wouldn’t be the same. However, perhaps the trade-off would be worth it… if she could ever stop loving Will.

“Kenzie?”

She looked up to see Sloan striding towards her.  “Come here, quick,” she told her while frantically pointing towards the small karaoke stage that filled one end of the place.  She could hear the live sound of a guitar but not who was playing. 

As they walked across the room, she could see that the entire staff had gathered around the stage, most finding seats at empty tables and a few others standing behind.

It was then she saw Will on-stage with one of his electric guitars, next to a microphone stand; and Gary was behind him at the drums.

“What’s he doing?” Sloan whispered loudly to her.

“I don’t know,” she replied impatiently as more confusion at the sight of him mixed with the uncertainty that already engulfed her.

“He didn’t say anything to you?”

“No.  Go sit down,” she commanded as she pointed towards one empty stool at the end of the bar near the stage.  Whatever Will intended next, she did not want company.  Nina could be here, too.  She would observe from a place where she was alone.  “Go,” she insisted again.  “I’ll pull up a chair.”


	8. Warriors, Wanderers, Kings and Vagabonds

As MacKenzie quickly scanned the room for a desirable spot to watch this impromptu concert, she encountered Charlie. “Problem?” she asked instinctively.

“No.  What’s he doing?” Charlie replied loudly, gesturing to Will, who was now entertaining their staff with a guitar solo of sorts.

She shrugged.  “I have no clue.  You don’t know?”

“Nothing.  He texted me ten minutes ago to meet him here for drinks.  The two of you are in a rough patch? That’s why you took Wednesday off?”

“Is that what you told him?” she asked with a sigh.

“I said nothing to him,” Charlie assured her. “Don’t give up hope.  Love has great power to heal, even if some of us are blind and hardheaded.”

She sighed again.  He sounded like her father with his sermons on faith, hope and charity.

“Should we pull up a couple of chairs?”

“Go ahead.  I’ll watch from back here.”  She pointed to a spot at the far side of the room.

“I need a drink.  You want one?”

“I’m good.  Another one would put me to sleep.”  The emotions and events of this long week were catching up to her.

A few minutes later Charlie joined her in the corner as Will finished his solo.  He leaned towards her and said quietly, “It doesn’t matter where you stand.  He knows exactly where you are.”

Mac turned to him while still keeping an eye on the stage.  “He honestly didn’t say anything to you about tonight?”

Charlie shook his head.  “Not a word—about any of it.”

“Oh…” 

Conversation between them ceased as Will grabbed the microphone.  “MacKenzie reminded me recently that I owe you a song.  Thank you to an old friend for letting me borrow a new, unreleased song. Gary Cooper is on the drums tonight. Grateful we got him and Maggie Jordan home safe from Africa.”  She watched in amazement as Jenna also joined them on stage.  Will handed her a microphone, gave her a shout-out, and then started in on his guitar with a heavy assist from Gary on the drums.

“Sorority girl sings?” Charlie asked her.

“She must,” Mac immediately replied, just as startled.

“Is Will planning on starting a band?”

MacKenzie just shook her head in wonder, blown away by what was taking place on stage.

Will began to sing and then Jenna.  Back and forth, an upbeat, conversational duet unfolded between the two of them.  She missed some of the lyrics in this new tune, but she got the gist of them.  Jenna’s voice was beautiful.  Will’s choice of song was perfect:  something about everyone having “bruises” and that these life-wounds make for richer, stronger, closer relationships.

The sight of the three of them together on stage, joyously interacting, put a huge smile on her face.  From the first day of  _News Night 2.0_. this kind of unity—with Will taking the lead—was one of her biggest goals.  Watching him perform with such rapturous abandon gave her goosebumps.  This, too, was the Will she fell in love with—and loved still.  The song’s end was met with a standing ovation, full of applause, cheers and catcalls. Will deflected all of it towards Jenna and Gary. 

Charlie leaned in and said to her, “Tracking you down in that bowling alley was the best decision I ever made—next to tricking Nancy into marrying me.”

“This wasn’t me,” she insisted.  “But I’m glad, too.” Despite all of the shifting complexities that defined her relationship with Will, this was the job she loved best.

After the scene quieted down, Jenna returned to her seat and Will stepped to the side as a small piano was brought forward to the front of the stage opposite to Gary’s drums.  She looked around to see what other musician Will had waiting in the wings to join him and Gary on this next song.

Though she possessed little musical talent, the piano fascinated her.  Fortunately, she could see some of the keys due to the angle it was placed.  Her mother and oldest sister, Kate, played beautifully and as a little girl she loved watching their hands fly across the keys with near perfect precision.

But nobody else came.  Instead Will handed his guitar to someone she did not recognize and then moved the microphone stand to the piano.  An astonished buzz filled the room as he sat down at this new instrument.

“Are you kidding me? He plays piano?” Charlie asked her in disbelief.  “How did I not know that?”

“Nobody knows,” she answered, her eyes still fixed upon Will.  “He quit at twelve with a promise never to play again.  He picked up the guitar a few years later.”

“ _You_ know,” he reminded her.

She looked at him and said, “It was a long time ago.”

“Yet, here we are in a karaoke bar and he’s breaking a thirty-five-year-old promise.”

MacKenzie had no time to reply—or to think of a reply—before Will said something about Africa and then played the opening notes of a melody she recognized instantly.  One that lived deep in her soul and which stirred up a huge range of emotions in her.  Throughout the past 4.5 years she had listened to this song hundreds of times. To hear Will play it now on the piano was overwhelming.  Apparently, she was not the only person rendered speechless.  The entire bar was completely silent.  Nobody expected this from him.

With rapt attention, she listened as he sang the first stanza of the long familiar lyrics:

 _There's a calm surrender to the rush of day,_  
_When the heat of the rolling world can be turned away._  
_An enchanted moment and it sees me through._  
_It's enough for this restless warrior just to be with you._

She became mesmerized by the beauty of his hands, so large and yet so deft and effortless as they worked magic on the keys in perfect harmony with his voice and with Gary’s beat on the drums; and by his eyes—always by his eyes.  At times they seemed to peer at her.  It mattered not that she was likely wrong, she was incapable of looking away. 

Of one thing she felt sure, however.  Will would never sing this particular song to another woman.  The memory of it was precious to her, and she was certain that the emotions from that weekend must still hold great power over him, too.

When he reached the last chorus, the lyrics again occupied the forefront of her mind while she continued to watch him closely as he scanned the width of the room from right to left without missing a note on the piano:

 _And can you feel the love tonight? It is where we are._  
_It's enough for this wide-eyed wanderer that we got this far._  
_And can you feel the love tonight? How it's laid to rest._  
_It's enough to make kings and vagabonds believe the very best._

Will paused momentarily, and again she felt his eyes bear into her own. She fought to preserve her composure as he tenderly sang the last refrain:  " _It's enough to make kings and vagabonds believe the very best_."  She lost the battle and for the second time tonight her tear ducts were poor sentinels to the British half of her genes.

After he concluded, it took the audience a minute to catch up.  Then they burst into applause, including Charlie.  Will stood up and walked over to Gary and shook his hand.  Then he stepped down from the stage and was immediately surrounded by the others.

Charlie turned to her and with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes said, “Well, I’ll be damned….  William Duncan McAvoy just sang a love song.  I need another drink.”

Regaining her composure and discreetly wiping the moisture from her eyelids, she walked with him towards the other side of the room. While he went to the bar, she remained behind the fray.  Will was in high spirits and seemed wholly present in the moment as he talked to everyone. This, too, made her smile. 

Sloan quickly approached her with a barrage of questions.  Fortunately, she was prepared for this onslaught. “Aren’t you doing a segment on Elliot’s show tonight?” she asked, looking at her watch.  “You better get back.”

Sloan looked down at her own watch. “Fine.  But I’m calling you after.”  She pointed a finger at her.  “Right after, Kenzie.”

As Sloan left, Charlie returned and handed her a drink.  “Cheers,” he told her.

She muttered thanks and then took a sip. However, her attention remained on Will interacting with their staff.  He was easy to track, given he was at least five inches taller than everyone else in the room except for Charlie.  The part of her that was bruised and raw from the past week wanted to leave while he was still occupied.  But her legs wouldn’t cooperate, driven to stay by the larger part of her brain—and most of her heart.  She had an entire orchestra of emotions playing inside of her and a million questions running around there, too. 

Charlie interrupted her musings and said, “For the record, you haven’t been out of Will’s sight once.”  Mac studied him for a moment and recognized that his observation was made with complete sincerity. 

She flashed him a small smile and returned her attention to Will.  Her heart began to pound as his path brought him closer to where she and Charlie stood. When he cleared the crowd, she held her breath as he joined the two of them.  

Will greeted Charlie warmly and then, shielding her from the view of their staff, smiled at her with his eyes and adroitly slipped a small piece of paper into the palm of her left hand as he caressed her cheek with the back of his other hand.  He did not linger, however, but walked purposely towards the door.  She opened his hand-written note and read: _“Some promises are meant to be broken.”_

“What does it say?” Charlie asked.

She handed him the note and he studied it for a moment.  Returning it to her, he said with a fatherly smile, “He’s yours… if you want him to be.”

Still in shock, instinctively she glanced towards the door.   “Go to him,” Charlie told her, taking the drink she still held in her right hand. “I’ll run cover.”

She immediately turned her attention back to her boss as her brain caught up with her ears.

“Go,” he insisted.  “If you love him like I believe you do, take a chance.  That song was for you and my guess is that he meant every word.”

XXXXXXXX

MacKenzie left Hang Chew’s before anyone else knew she was gone.  As she walked out onto the street, she expected to find Will.  Instead his old bodyguard was standing by an open car door. “What’s going on?” she asked him. “Has there been another threat?”

“Just doing a favor for an old friend.” Lonny gestured inside the car.

She poked her head around his massive frame. The backseat was empty.  “Where is he?”

“He said to tell you that he’s gone back in time to find the future and he wants you to come, too.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, but Lonny just smiled.

“He also asked that you hand over your purse and all electronic devices.”

“He what?”

“Oh… and he added please.”

“What? Why?”

“Because curiosity killed your particular brand of cat, and I could crush you.”

Despite herself, she laughed at both the sentiment in the message and the deadpan delivery of it. “The man is crazy,” she told him as she retrieved her Blackberry from her jacket pocket and put it in her handbag.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he replied as he took the purse and then closed the car door after she climbed inside.

She felt almost naked without her purse and her phone.  But she sank back into the leather and tried to relax as she mentally walked through the events of the night.  The earth had shifted.  But shifted to what?  “Where are we going?” she asked Lonny, who was sitting in the front passenger seat.

“Teterboro.”

“Airport?”

“That’s all I know.”  He turned around and handed her a small envelope with a bar of her favorite Belgian chocolate.

She thanked him before opening the envelope. Inside was a note card with the words: _“It’s not… But it can be.”_  

Her mind slipped into the memory of her conversation with Will after their first _News Night_ broadcast together—April 20, 2010—when he confessed that he got flustered because he thought that he saw her in the audience at Northwestern.  She tried to tell him that she _was_ there and that she _had_ written those words, but the elevator door closed too quickly. 

After that, it wasn’t until the night of the “American Taliban” comparison in August that the topic came up again.  Will would not tell her what he said in the highjacked voicemail from the night Bin Laden was killed, but instead he brought up Northwestern and his “hallucination” of her holding up those words in the audience. She showed him her notebook and let him know that it wasn’t a hallucination.  She thought it would prove to be a breakthrough in their relationship.  But she mishandled that conversation and it had the opposite effect.  The past week exemplified this harsh truth—until the past 36 hours anyway.                             

Had his feelings towards her and towards Northwestern changed?  Could Will now be seducing her with her own words?  She smiled. It felt like it.  Of course, chocolate always worked like a talisman on her, too, particularly as he remembered her most favorite bar.  Greedily she opened it and devoured a few pieces before putting the rest in her jacket pocket. 

She pulled out Will’s note from Hang Chew’s and read it again before sticking it in the envelope with this second one.  Was Will hers again?  It’s what she dreamed about.  But so much had transpired between them.  How did they begin to unravel it all?  Were they even capable of moving forward together and letting go of past injuries and misunderstandings?  Did love, in fact, hold such power?

She took out another piece of chocolate and plopped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and savored the richness of the blend and the flavor of the cacao bean.  She must have dozed off because the opening of the car door startled her.

Silently, and groggily, she walked with Lonny into the main building.  As they approached the concierge desk, they were headed off by a young pilot who stated, “Ms. McHale, I’ll be flying you and Mr. Church tonight.  We’ve been cleared for take-off, so if you’ll follow me, we will be airborne in no time.”

“Where are we going?” she asked her as they approached the private jet that awaited them.

“I’ve been instructed to plead the Fifth on that question.”

Mac turned to Lonny.  “Seriously?”  But he just laughed at her in response as they climbed up the stairs.

Once airborne, Lonny approached her seat and handed her a large envelope.  She pulled out a file with another note paper clipped to the top corner that read: _“First things first.”_

Mac scanned the document inside and discovered it was a new employment contract for her.  It was the same contract she had signed seventeen months ago, except for two huge changes:  One, her title was changed to “Co-managing editor of ACN and Executive Producer of _News Night with Will McAvoy._ ”  Two, only the President of ACN now had the power to fire her.

Perplexed, she put the contract down on the small table in front of her and leaned back in her plush seat.  This was yet one more seismic shift in her world.  On Tuesday morning, he reminded her in no uncertain terms that he was the managing editor.  And now he was ceding some of that control to her and creating a full professional partnership with her—one where he had no power to fire her?  She took a drink from the glass of ice water the flight attendant had brought her before take-off.

She picked up the contract and again read it even more thoroughly.  There was even a “sign here” sticky note attached to the signature line next to her name at the end.  In addition, all other necessary signatures had been executed, including Will’s.  She returned the document to its folder and took another big gulp of water.  She was touched by the contract’s significance; however, she would not sign it.

She stared out the window.  What else was there to do at the moment?  The night was clear. She studied the landscape, guessed they were heading south, and then became hypnotized by the lights below.

As she began to drift off to sleep, Lonny approached her again with a Diet Coke and a small gift-wrapped box, which he placed on the table next to her.  “Is the Diet Coke from you or your friend?” she asked.

“I prefer the real thing.”

She chuckled.  Will was keeping her on her toes.  More accurately, _he_ was producing _her_.  She opened the cold can and took a big gulp, feeling the burn of the carbonation as it traveled down her throat.  It was just what she needed at the moment. 

Quickly though, she set aside the cola and opened the box.  Inside was a framed playbill from the Broadway show _The Lion King_ matted and framed with a metal plate centered below with only a date inscribed.  He remembered.

_April 21, 2007_

_Thirty minutes into the musical, MacKenzie looked to her left in their box at the Minskoff Theatre and after a few moments, she caught Will’s attention.  Together they smiled at the three children sitting between them.  All three of them were leaning forward in their seats, completely engrossed at the scene taking place on the stage below._

_Yesterday, she brought the three of them up from Washington—Will’s two nephews, eleven-year-old Christopher and seven-year-old Max, and her seven-year-old niece, Morgan MacKenzie, the youngest child and only daughter of her oldest sister._

_Morgan, like herself, had dual-UK/US citizenship and she, too, was the daughter of a diplomat.  Her brother-in-law, Mark, was earning increasing responsibilities in the State Department; and after a year of post-graduate work at Harvard, he was being assigned to Kenya.  Morgan, who was incredibly precocious, insisted on spending a week with her aunt in Washington and a weekend in New York with her aunt and “Uncle Will” before her family left for Africa.  Since she was bringing Morgan up to New York, they decided to invite Matt’s boys, too._

_They made elaborate kid-friendly plans which included a Mets game last night, a boat ride to the Statue of Liberty, the Top of the Rock, a trip through Central Park in the traditional horse-drawn carriage, and, of course, the toy store, book store, and candy store.  Tonight, Will surprised them all with tickets to_ The Lion King _._

_Morgan was sitting next to Will and she had Max, with Christopher in the middle seat.  This show was not new to her, nonetheless, she, like the kids, was soon engrossed and the time flew by._

_When the characters began to sing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” towards the end, she again looked back towards Will.  Morgan’s chair was now next to his own and his arm was draped around her little shoulders.  The boys’ chairs, however, were up against the railing, and they were peering over the edge.  She_ _caught a glimpse of the future she and Will could have together.  She found herself staring at him.  He turned his head and met her gaze.  And as two young lions sang below them about the power of love “stealing through the night’s uncertainties,” she felt sure that Will saw what she saw._

_Later, back at Will’s apartment, the two of them met up with each other in the hallway between the two bedrooms.  “Your charges asleep?” Will asked her._

_“They went right down after the first story,” she told him.  Max wanted her to read to him tonight before bed while his older brother pretended to read his own book while listening attentively (she suspected because of her accent).  “I think we wore them out—even Christopher. They are wonderful, Will.  I’m sad that they will be leaving Norfolk for San Diego next month.”_

_“Me, too.  More than I ever expected.”_

_“And Morgan?” Her niece was insistent that Will tuck her in._

_“No story for her tonight.  Just more questions.  Moving to Africa still worries her. She doesn’t want to be so far away from you.  I promised her that we would visit her there.”_

_She laughed.  “She extracted the same promise from me.  All three of them were enraptured during the play tonight…. So was I.  Thank you.”_

_“Feel up to tucking me in with a little conversation and a kiss good-night?” he asked, brushing a piece of stray hair off of her face._

_“You’re really going to sleep on the couch tonight?”  The boys were now in his big bed while she and Morgan still occupied the guest room._

_He shrugged.  “It’s easier than moving one of them. I refuse to sleep three in the bed.  Besides, this is the only time we have alone this weekend—not that I’m complaining.”_

_“What did you have in mind?” Provocatively she ran a finger down the center of his abdomen and felt his body instinctively contract._

_“You are wicked,” he protested as he grabbed her hand and brought it up to his lips.  He led her to the living room and dimmed the lights on the way to the sofa. “There may be kids in the apartment, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t give you some old-fashioned romance,” he told her as they settled themselves, his long legs stretched out on the coffee table._

_She smiled.  “Billy, you’ve romanced me all weekend.”_

_Her reply evidently caught him by surprise.  “You don’t get it, do you?” she said._

_“Get what?” he asked, still puzzled._

_“The effect that watching you with our nieces and nephews has on me.  You are going to be an incredible father.”_

_His eyes filled with doubt. “MacKenzie, what if I turn out to be like my father?  I don’t know if I can be the man you want me to be.”_

_She leaned closer to him and ran her fingers gently through the back of his hair.  “Will, you are the best man I know.  Having children of your own won’t suddenly change who you are, only enhance who you are.”_

_“I wish that I could be as certain.”_

_“I have doubts, too, about motherhood—a mountain of them.  But I have great faith in us as a team.  Do you want a family?”_

_He kissed her forehead.  “With you? Yes.”_

_“We’re not on anybody’s time clock but our own. We never have been. I’m certainly in no hurry.  We have lots to learn.  I just want to learn with you.”_

_“I really do want that, too.”_

_“That’s all I need to know.”  She snuggled into his chest and his arms tightened around her. After a few minutes she raised herself up and again ran a finger down his abdomen.  “Can I get a demonstration of this old-fashioned romance you promised? Please tell me it includes more than a chaste good-night kiss.”_

Mac smiled at the memory of the remainder of that night.  Unchaste kissing was absolutely included, along with touching, and then falling asleep in his arms until—at his insistence—he carried her into the other room to sleep in the guest room.  She sighed. Were Will’s memories of that night the same as hers?

She felt the plane’s rate of descent change. They must be close to landing.  She looked at her watch.  Her guess was Washington, based on flight time, their southernly route and Will's remark about going back in time.  However, she looked out the window for landmarks but saw nothing familiar.  Nonetheless, she was ready to be on the ground and to find Will.

Upon landing, she grabbed the contract and playbill and followed Lonny off the plane.  Will, however, was not there.  “Where is he, Lonny?” she asked as they walked towards a nearby waiting car.

“I honestly don’t know,” he replied.  When they reached the car, he opened the door and handed yet another small envelope to her. 

Once they were on the dark road to somewhere, she turned on the overhead light and read this new hand-written note: " _Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.  The mystic chords of memory… will yet swell… when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”_

She needed no attribution for this Lincoln quote. But never before had she contemplated it on a personal level; and now, thanks to Will, she could not picture it otherwise.

 


	9. Bonds of Affection

Will sat on the steps looking across the reflecting pool with the Washington Monument in the background. But that lasted only a few minutes.  He simply could not sit still. 

He then walked the length and width of the memorial.  He paused before the huge marble statue of the 16th President and wondered if Old Abe ever found himself in such a minefield of his own making. He started to sweat—literally.  He wiped the moisture off his forehead with his hand and returned to the steps where he hoped the evening breeze would cool him down. 

Once seated again, he forced himself to breathe deeply and to quiet his mind in the manner that Coach Williams had first taught him to do all those years ago before big games—the biggest of which was the state championship game his senior year when he threw seven scoreless innings and drove in what would be the game’s winning run (and only run).  It was a skill he forgot to utilize far too often as an adult outside of when he played music.  Tonight, though, he remembered.  He had to—there was too much at stake.

Somewhat surprisingly, it worked.  Until his Blackberry vibrated with a text: “ _Lady is approaching the Tramp._ ”

 _“Very funny, Church_ ,” Will responded.  “ _How is she?_ ”

“ _She likes me better than you.”_

_“That’s brash for a late-round draft pick.”_

_“Don’t screw this up, McAvoy._ ”

He put his phone away. However, there was no quieting his mind now.  He again began to pace, his adrenaline increasing with every step as he mentally reviewed precisely what he would say to her.  For almost two days he had thought of little else when his mind wasn’t forced to perform other tasks. He started to sweat anew so he slowed his pace and walked over towards the side where the elevator was located.  Anxiously he waited.  His breath became uneven as he continued to rehearse his words while keeping one eye fixed on the elevator.

“Since when did you become the Scarlet Pimpernel?” 

Will heard the familiar voice and immediately turned around to find MacKenzie purposefully striding towards him.  She climbed the nearly 60 steps and she was not breathing hard at all.  It was patently unfair when just the sight of her caused a disruption in his entire respiratory system.  “When did I what?” he asked, uncertain he heard correctly.

“When did you become the damned elusive Pimpernel?”

“Well, I…”

“Explain this?”  She stood in front of him now, waving the folder which contained her new contract.

“Did you sign it?” he asked enthusiastically.

“No, I didn’t sign it.”

He was taken aback.  “Why not?”

“Because you are the smartest person I know--well, besides my father--but your impulsivity at times is truly scary.  So, help me, Billy, if you took another huge pay cut in order to un-fire me.”

“I would if that is what it takes.”

“And when we can’t agree?” she asked hypothetically.

“We flip a coin.”

“Seriously?” She stared at him skeptically.

“Compromise, MacKenzie.  Although we both know that you will almost always get your way.”

“Why now?”

“Because it’s the truth and long overdue.  You are the best partner anybody could have.  I never want that to change.”  His voice cracked.

What she did next astonished him.  She ripped up the contract, marched over to a nearby trash can and threw it away.  When she turned back around, she told him, “I don’t need a new contract.  Although I will remind you of this conversation anytime I feel like it.”

All he could do was smile at her as he walked towards her. 

“What is all this?” She gestured around them. “Why are we here?”

“Umm…”

“Why are we here, Will?”

“I’m thinking,” he replied.

“You’re thinking?  You broke a promise you made decades ago, created a scavenger hunt, flew us here on separate private jets, and you don’t know why we are here?”

“You kind of stole my thunder and I’m trying to regroup.”

She raised her eyebrows at him.  “Really?”

“Okay… I’m building my case, that’s why.”

“Your case for what?”

“For us,” he said.  “It’s a declaration, an apology, a confession, a plea, a proposition….”

“That’s all?” she asked with a small smile and amusement dancing in her beautiful eyes.

“There’s probably a lot more.  I’m a little flustered,” he admitted.

“We couldn’t have this conversation in New York?”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Look at your watch,” he told her.

She did.  “It’s midnight, so?”

“On a Friday night.  At the Lincoln Memorial.”

“Oh.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Mac, you love this place and this city, and I took that from you.  I want you to love it again.”  He took a deep breath and continued, “Look, I had this all planned out.  But now that you’re here, I can’t string two coherent words together.  Can we start this over?”

“And they pay you the big bucks to use your mouth.”

He ached to touch her.  But he had no right to do so.  “I don’t want to screw this up.”  His voice again sounded uneven.

She reached out and touched him on the arm. “Let’s start with the easiest things first…. You played the piano.”

He nodded.  “You were right.  There is music in my soul and that includes the piano; and the only one I’ve hurt with that stupid promise is me.  I finally stopped kicking against the pricks.”

“It’s about time,” she exclaimed.  But then her expression turned thoughtful.  More tentatively, she asked, “And your promise to be mad at me forever?”

“Shattered,” he declared unequivocally.  “I was found somewhere between Mudville and Damascus.”

“What?”  Her confusion was obvious.

He shook his head.  “Never mind.  The point is that I’ve been a complete fool, jerk, bully, ass—you name it.  I only hope that someday you’ll be able to look past my idiocy and countless other things.”

She thought over his declaration for a long moment and then asked, “Were you only talking about work Thursday morning when you told me that you’ll be the man I need you to be?”

“No,” he insisted.  “I _will_ be that man if you’ll let me.  I _want_ to be that man, although you will have to teach me.”

“You  _do_ remember our conversation after _The Lion King_.”

“I remember everything about that weekend.”

“The mystic chords of memory have been touched by the better angels of nature?” she teased, reciting from the Lincoln quote contained in his last note.

“For some of us, finding our better angels doesn’t come easy,” he confessed.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Will.  It’s not that they are missing.  They’ve always been there.  It’s that you don’t see them.”

“You still believe that—even after all I have put you through?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Just then, they were interrupted by the ruckus made by a group of university students racing up the stairs.  “Can we go to wherever you planned next?” she asked him.

“Of course.  Are you cold?”

“No.  You are too recognizable, and we’re too exposed.” 

He glanced around and realized she was right.  He had been lucky up to this point.  Hardly a soul had been around earlier.  No more. There were others besides the self-absorbed (and likely intoxicated) students mulling around.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a short text.

“Let’s go, Billy.  But we’re taking the elevator.” She startled him when she took his hand and led him off the main plaza floor.

By unspoken agreement, they said nothing more. But Mac also did not let go of his hand. He was grateful it was dark because he must look like a besotted puppy, even though his brain was going a mile a minute trying to re-assess what was happening and all the things he needed to say to her.  She had cut him a break thus far but that was bound to change.  There was still so much in his past behavior that needed to be explained.  She would be his judge and jury:  the one who decided what his life—his future—would be.

Traffic in the district at this time of night was minimal so very quickly the car stopped at their destination.  “The Hay Adams?” MacKenzie said as he helped her out of the SUV. 

“Best view in town.”

She smiled.  “I remember.  But I have nothing with me—including my purse and phone.”

“It’s upstairs.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and slipped it into her hand.  “Here, you can have mine.”

She gave it back to him.  “It’s not my size—or my color.”

“I also grabbed your ‘go’ bag,” he told her as he repocketed his phone. 

Her laughter was music in his ears.  A beautiful, rare melody heard far too infrequent lately.  His doing, of course. 

XXXXXXXXX 

Will let them in the suite and after a quick look, MacKenzie said to him, “This is the same suite we stayed in.”

“It is,” he verified. 

“How did you get it on such short notice?  You booked it months in advance before.”

He shrugged.  “Luck.  They had a cancellation, and you know, it is a quieter time of year in the city.”  He helped to take off her jacket, shrugged out of his own, and then hung them both up.

While he did so, MacKenzie slipped off her shoes and wandered over to the big windows across the living room that overlooked the White House, Washington Monument and St. John’s Church.  He joined her there, placing himself directly behind her. 

He wanted to touch her, but he was afraid it would be too much, too soon.  By rights, she should recoil from him.  He punished her time and time again over the past eighteen months.  However, this week he also hurt her—deeply.   Yet here she stood with him.

As if she read his thoughts, she took a step backward until their bodies touched.  Immediately he wrapped his arms around her ribcage.  He felt her relax as she leaned her head against his shoulder and put her arms and hands over his own.     

He relaxed, too, and his mind partially slipped into the past.  On July 4, 2006, they stood in this exact spot while fireworks filled the sky over the National Mall.  MacKenzie was correct.  He booked the suite months in advance and long before he received an invitation to a White House party for that night.  They went to the party and enjoyed themselves.  However, just before the fireworks began, they quietly slipped out and crossed Lafayette Park back to the hotel for their own private viewing party. 

They made it up to the suite just as the first rocket exploded in the sky.  MacKenzie rushed to the window and he followed.  He held her like he was holding her now.  He breathed in the scent of her and her favorite perfume. She loved that fragrance and he loved her in it—then and now.  After a few minutes he took her hand and led her into the master bedroom.  He opened the French doors and they continued to watch the fireworks from the balcony with her in his arms before they moved their party to the bed.

He sighed and forced air into his lungs.  He couldn’t go deeper into that memory because tonight could not end in the same way.  It was essential that he maintain iron self-control. 

“Are you thinking about before?” she asked.

“Yes.” He kissed her on the top of her head.  “You?”

“Yes.”  She, too, sighed.  “I’ve done that a lot the past week.”

“Me, too,” he told her.

She turned in his arms and looked up at him in surprise.  “You have?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.  “Are you hungry?”

“Starved.  You forgot to feed me on the plane—except for plying me with chocolate and Diet Coke.”

“I didn’t forget.”  He gestured behind them to the table that was full of food.  “You didn’t like the chocolate?  I thought it’s your favorite.”

“It is,” she agreed.

“Good.  Because finding it took some work.”

“You know,” she pointed out, “we’ve become quite adroit at making small talk with each other.”

He nodded as he said, “I know.”  He took one of her hands and brought it up to his lips. Then he continued, “I’ve made so many mistakes with you.  And given my track record….”

She squeezed his hand.  “If it helps, my head is spinning, too, with a million questions and thoughts all jumbled together.  Let’s eat.  The words will come.”

“Thank you.  But before we eat, there are a couple of things I want you to know.  One, is that you are done paying penance.  I was the one who broke trust on May 11, 2007—not you.  I am more sorry than you can ever know that it took me this long to figure that out. It’s my turn to pay and I will spend every day from now on paying, whether we are together or not.  Two, I love you.  You were right, I fell in love with you the day we met—hell, I was half in love with you even before we officially met—and that has never stopped despite my pride, stubbornness and idiocy.”

She started to respond but he placed a finger softly against her mouth.  “Don’t say anything right now.  It’s a lot to take in.  You should have time to figure out what you want.  I will give you all the time you need.”

She sighed.  “Okay,” she said softly.  “But for the record, I love you, too.  I just don’t know what that means yet.”

“I know,” he replied.  “Let’s eat and then we are both turning in.”

They sat down at the table, shared a sandwich, and a few bites of chocolate cake.  But once the adrenaline in his body quieted, exhaustion crept in. Looking at MacKenzie, she was every bit as tired.  “Let’s get you to bed.  Tomorrow we have a birthday to celebrate.”

He led her into the master bedroom where her purse and “go” bag were already on the bed.  “I also got you a new fuzzy blanket and a night light,” he told her, pointing to the gift bag.

She giggled but then admitted to him, “I am so tired.”

He kissed her on the forehead.  “Go to bed.  I’m in the second bedroom.  I’ll keep the door open.”

“Will you be able to sleep?” she asked.

“I think so.  Probably better than in weeks.  You?”

“I think so, too.”

However, he was still awake 45 minutes later when MacKenzie came into the room, dressed in her pajamas with her new blanket in hand, and her face devoid of all make-up. She had never looked lovelier. “Can I sleep next to you?” 

He smiled at her.  “I have a better idea.  How about if I come and sleep next to you?  Your bed is bigger.”  

He grabbed an extra pillow and together they climbed into the master bed.  By silent agreement, they turned on their sides, facing each other.  There was just enough light streaming in from the French doors and from the night light to see each other’s faces.  After a few minutes Mac asked, “Sing for me?”

“Sure,” he agreed.  “What would you like?”

“ _The Lion King_ ,” she answered with a yawn.

"It's a good thing I've been practicing," he teased.

"Will you tell me the rest of that story tomorrow? You play so beautifully."

"Yes." He took her hand and again began to sing _Can You Feel the Love Tonight?_. Before he finished the last chorus, she was sleeping soundly.  He closed his eyes and offered a prayer of thanks, particularly for all the better angels of her nature; and then he, too, fell asleep.


	10. For Where Thou Art

**Saturday, October 8, 2011**

MacKenzie awoke to light streaming in the bedroom window and the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.  She leaned across the bed to see the clock:  7:45. She was shocked that Will was awake and out of bed.  She was also surprised that she felt rejuvenated after only five hours of sleep. 

She stretched and then climbed temporarily out of bed to retrieve her phone before snuggling back into her new blanket.   She was half-way through her voice and text messages from the night before when Will strolled out of the bathroom, clean shaven and dressed in Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt. His hair was damp and slightly mussed, and his feet were bare. The last time she saw him like this was during their last weekend together in 2007.  Suddenly she felt tongue-tied and overly sensitive about her own unkept appearance.  He smiled, but he, too, looked unsure of where to begin. 

“Good morning.  Did you sleep okay?” he asked somewhat tentatively.

She smiled.  “I was completely out.”

 “So, you don’t remember curling up next to me most of the night?”

“Did I really?”

“Just a little.  Though I think you were more interested in your new blanket than me.”

“I was?”

“Just a little,” he teased.  “What are you looking at?”

“Messages from last night—mostly from Sloan.  Can I just ignore her?”

“If only,” he guffawed.

“Is it wrong that I don’t want to talk to anyone yet?”

“No,” he assured her. “Provided you’ve learned how not to send an email to 170,000 people.”

“I’m never going to live that down,” she protested.

“Nope.”

“I get the irony given everything our team has seen and heard the past seventeen months.  But what can I say when I don’t understand myself exactly what is happening?” 

He put his shaving kit on the dresser and sat down on the edge of the bed.  “You don’t owe anybody an explanation—even me,” he told her with earnest sincerity.  “Tell Sloan that you are out of town for the weekend, that your cell phone availability is limited, and you will be back on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?”

He nodded.  “Tuesday.  You’ve earned a day-off birthday girl.”

“And you?” she asked, wondering what else he had up his proverbial sleeve.

“That’s completely up to you,” he replied.  “I’m yours to command.”

“Being the executive producer tougher than you thought, Billy?”

“I didn’t say that—only that you get to decide whether I’m invited to your birthday party.”

“My party?”

“Don’t worry.  It’s a very exclusive, intimate affair.”

“Sometimes you terrify me.”

“Good.  Now what would you like for breakfast? And you can’t have cake.  That’s for later.”

“Surprise me,” she told him.

While Will left the room to place their breakfast order, she continued to scroll through her messages and came across two _YouTube_  links from Neal.  She clicked on the first one to find a recording of Will’s performance last night with Gary and Jenna. She laughed and imagined Will’s reaction to this latest foray into the realm of social media.  However, within seconds she was completely captivated. She turned up the volume and strained to see all the detail without her reading glasses. 

“What’s that?” Will asked from the doorway.

She pushed pause on her phone.  “You and ‘sorority girl’ on _YouTube_.  I think you’ve got another hit on your hands.”

“Lucky me,” he said dryly, leaning up against the door frame.

“Did you bring your laptop?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I want to relive this concert on a bigger screen.”

Without a word he retrieved his computer and as he handed it to her, he asked, “Okay if I join you?”

“Are you really asking for permission?”

He ducked his head into his left shoulder and said, “Yeah.”

She patted the bed in an invitation.

He settled next to her and they rested the laptop between them.  He entered the passcode and she pulled up the video.  Throughout the song she could feel his eyes on her rather than on the screen. As he frequently did this in their past, it wasn’t too unsettling.  Besides, she was more interested in watching him perform last night than in watching him watch her this morning.  At the end of the song, she turned to him.  He was still looking at her intently. “You have such a gift,” she told him.

He brushed off her compliment with a shrug.

“One of our people made the video.”

He nodded.  “I know.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No,” he replied with a shake of the head.

“Wait a minute… Did you ask Neal to do it?”

“No.  But I figured that he or someone else would.”

“Figured or counted on?”

“The latter.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.  “For Jenna.  She should be known as who she is rather than by my punch line for her at Northwestern.  You did your part in bringing her to _News Night_ —for her and for me, too.  It was my turn to make it up to her.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.  “How did you know she could sing?”

“I didn’t.  But when I asked her to find out who among our team does, the look on her face told me everything I needed.”

“She’s really good.  So is Gary.  It was perfect.”

“You do understand that your opinion is the only one I care about.”

She nodded. “Being here with you seems so normal.”

“We know each other too well for it to be otherwise.” 

“It’s also unsettling.  I’m confused, Will, about how things could change so drastically since Wednesday.  And I’m afraid that I will say the wrong thing as I have so often, and it will change back just as quick.”

He closed the laptop and put it on the bedside table.  Resting a hand on her thigh, he told her, “It’s okay. I’ve done nothing to deserve your faith or trust, particularly lately.  You can say anything, and it won’t change how I feel about you.”

“How can you be sure?”

 “I realize it’s only been two days, but a lot has happened for me in that time. My world shifted on its axis.”  With more conviction he added, “I’m not the same person.”

As she studied his face, she remembered something he said last night at the Lincoln Memorial.  “What did you mean when you said you were ‘found somewhere between Mudville and Damascus’?”

“Can we go in the other room?  It will be easier to talk.”

“I’m still in my pajamas.”

“Yes, you are,” he answered with a wolfish grin as he scooted off the bed.

“You have me at a distinct disadvantage,” she protested.  “Can I at least brush my teeth?”

“Mac, you are fierce in the best way possible. Nobody could ever have you at a disadvantage.  That’s one of a million things I love about you.  But you can shower and dress—whatever you want.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“Brushing my teeth will suffice.  And why were you up so early anyway?”

Hands on his hips, he said, “Things to do. It’s a big day.” 

“Still playing the role of the Pimpernel?” she asked, climbing out of bed.

“It’s your birthday. What do you expect?”

She shook her head in mild exasperation, walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.  She brushed her teeth and her hair, and then found an old t-shirt at the bottom of her “go” bag which she threw on over her tank top.  She wouldn’t give him any excuse to look at anything but her face during this conversation.

When she joined him in the living room, she found him staring out the southside windows. He was deep in thought and failed to hear her. “Mudville and Damascus, Billy,” she said to him.  He turned around and nodded as she sat down on one end of the sofa.

He sat down next to her, took a deep breath, and then told her, “Your absence and radio silence on Wednesday shook me up. And then before the show, Sloan came in to my office, asked where you were, and then let me have it.  She told me about the movie Tuesday night and that your instinctive reaction to seeing me with Nina was to recite from _Casey at the Bat_.  She didn’t say that, of course.  All she heard was something about a favored land and shouting children. She has no idea of the significance of those words.   But I know. I spent months after our breakup quoting that same last stanza and thinking about the day Marshall Williams died, our trip to Lincoln, and a million other things about our relationship and how we ended.  I wasn’t the only one though, was I?”

“No,” she admitted.  “I did, too.  And when I saw you with Nina the hopelessness and heart break came back.  I wasn’t even conscious that I was speaking aloud.”  Talking about what happened stirred up the same intense emotions that hit her so hard Tuesday night upon seeing Will with the gossip queen. 

MacKenzie picked up one of the decorative sofa pillows and hit him with it as she got truly worked-up. “Dammit, Will!  She helped hijack my phone and stole your message. You punished me for three months because of it.  She landed you in the hospital.  She tried to ruin you.  Then she lied to me about the message—I’m assuming she lied—and you did, too.  She was probably with you when I called.  And you immediately forgave her for all of that and you kept hating me.  You asked her out when you talked to her about the 9/11 coverage, didn’t you?  Were you with her every night afterward?  Did she fall asleep in your arms?  Did you sing to her and play the piano for her?”

Even as the words spilled out and she ran out of steam, she recognized that she had no desire to learn the answers to her questions.  It would only cause her more pain and anger.  Hadn’t she reached some level of reconciliation about Nina? And now with her tirade she had opened a proverbial can of worms—or in this case, snakes. She flew off the couch and fled to the back corner of the suite.  Swallowed up again by the soul-crushing humiliation, hurt and regret of their past and present, of Brian and Nina, and of the life they should have had together had she not been so stupid, she fell to her knees as her body shuddered, and tears came.

In an instant, however, she found herself held tight as Will joined her on the floor, kneeling in front of her.  He said nothing, only engulfed her in his strong arms with no intention of letting her go.  After a time, his embrace softened, and he gently stroked her back.  Eventually, her body quieted, and she sighed deeply. Her head still against his chest, she told him, “I’m sorry that I freaked out.  I have no right to question you about Nina.  You owe me no explanation.”

He released her before brushing away the last of her tears with his fingers and gently cupping her face in his hands.  “You have every right.  You are the one person who _is_ owed an explanation.  But you are not allowed to take responsibility for my screwups and shortcomings.  You have carried that burden far too long.  I only hope that in time you can forgive me for putting that responsibility on you.”

“Why her, Will?  Why now?”

He stood up and led her back to the sofa. He sat on the coffee table in front of her, took both of her hands in his and said, “This doesn’t change anything, but I saw her three times.  And yes, I had sex with her one time—the first time I saw her—after my inexcusable tirade at you about the voice mail.  She did not stay the night.” As he caressed the backs of her hands, he continued, “You are the only woman to whom I have ever sung, and until last night, nobody heard me play the piano.  The only reason I played it publicly last night was for you.  I didn’t know she lied, or even that you asked her about the message, until the other night.” 

He sighed and then continued, “When I heard nothing from you after the Bin Laden broadcast, all of the walls that were coming down, rebuilt themselves into a fortress of pain, resentment and confusion. I couldn’t find my way out, even after we learned that your phone was hacked.  I reacted like I learned to do as a boy.  I grew increasingly defensive and sanctimonious, and I kicked against the pricks.  And none of this justifies what I did and how I hurt you.  And you can hold her against me until the end of time.”

“I don’t want her between us. But I...” she told him.

He responded immediately.  “I know you don’t.  That is the beauty of your warm and generous spirit, though you have every right to hate me and resent me.” He paused a moment to gather his thoughts and then said with a tender gaze, “MacKenzie, you know me better than anyone else ever has, and in spite of that, you’ve always found the good in me while seeing past my countless flaws. That is the greatest miracle in my life—my saving grace.  I never want to lose that, and I will work day and night to become that man.”

“Hold me again?” she asked.  Despite everything, she needed the reassurance and comfort of his touch as she tried to take in what he told her. 

“Always. Never again will there be that invisible barrier between us.”  He moved to the couch and opened his arms.  “Come here.”

She scooted into his arms and readily accepted the warmth and security of his embrace.  Softly he told her, “I will not hurt you like I have.  I hope never to hurt you, period.  But we both know I’m an idiot.  I will try to be a lovable idiot though.”

She laughed.

“That’s better,” he said.  “I’ve missed the sound of your laughter.”

She pulled back and looked at him.  “When was the last time you laughed?  Genuinely laughed.”

“I don’t know.  It’s been a while,” he agreed.  “For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.”

“Shakespeare?”

He nodded. “Henry VI.”

“I always knew you had the heart of an Englishman.”

“It’s what we Nebraska farm boys aspire to—that and to attend Oxford.”

“Idiot.”

“I truly am.” The look in his eyes turned earnest and serious.  “I lied to you Monday night.”

Her breath caught and momentary panic hit as she tried to figure out exactly what he would say.  Instinctively she backed away from him, even as he reached into the right pocket of his shorts and pulled out a diamond ring.  She was stunned at the similarities.  “That looks like…”

“I didn’t take it back last April.  I ripped up the receipt right after I showed it to you.  Until last night, it was locked in the top drawer of my office desk.”

Flabbergasted, she asked, “Why?  It was a prop.”

“I know I said that, and on some level that was true.  But I’m the one who chose it—because I didn’t get the chance before.  And when I saw your face and realized I got it right, I tore up the receipt.”

“But why?”

“Because I love you.  I always have and always will.”

“How Will? You were so angry.”

“When did I leave the voice mail?”

“May 2.”

“Exactly. Less than three weeks after I bought the ring.  And did you see me with, or hear me brag about, any other woman after Valentine’s Day, except for my boneheaded and inexcusable Nina decision?”

“No,” she admitted, after giving his question a little thought.  Her perception about the shift in their relationship after that night was not off base.  “I thought things were changing between us, but then—"

“You were right, Mac,” he confirmed.  “About all of it, including the voice mail.  I remember every word of that message:  ‘Hey, it's me—Will.  Listen, I swear I'm not saying this because I'm high.  If the answer is no, then just do me a favor and don't call me back or bring it up or anything.  But I have to tell you… I mean, after tonight, I really want to tell you that I've never stopped loving you.”

By the time he finished, her hands covered her mouth.  “Oh, Billy,” she exclaimed, her voice barely audible. Then louder she proclaimed, “I want to kill that woman—and Reese.  And how could you be so stupid to think that my answer would be ‘no’ and that I wouldn’t be on your doorstep in a heartbeat?”

“Because I don’t deserve you.”

“Will, real love is not that way. It’s the opposite.  Never think that again.”

“I’m working on it,” he agreed. 

“Promise me,” she insisted.

“Just keep showing me the way.”

“It’s a two-way street.  You have to guide me, too.  You can’t shut me out.”

He nodded, sighed and then said, “I know that telling you what I did on Monday night about the ring took something precious that you can’t get back.  I will never forgive myself for it.  But I have a new ring in my other pocket and if you—”

“Wait a minute,” she said.  “Are you proposing?”

“I want to, but I won’t.  Not until you decide it’s what you want.  And I know that will take time—maybe a long time.  Whatever time it takes, I’ll wait.”

She sighed, too.  This new Will would take some getting used to…. No, she reminded herself, before she told him about Brian, he was far more like the man in front of her. Even the past seventeen months, he showed glimpses of this part of himself. He experienced so much trauma as a child, it paralyzed him at times. Yet, beneath it all, he desperately yearned to please those he loved and whose approval he needed.  “Let me guess… the new ring is bigger than the one in your hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Dammit, Will!” She almost picked up another sofa pillow to hit him with again.  “What are you doing carrying hundreds of thousands of dollars in your pockets?”

“I don’t care about the money.”

“I know,” she practically shouted.  “Do you know how many ways you need protecting from yourself?”

“Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi.  You’re the only one who can.’”

In spite of yourself, she laughed and then playfully pushed him.  “That is the worst movie line you’ve ever thrown at me.”

He laughed, even as he caught her around the waist.  “It just came out.”

“You’re crazy.” 

“Seriously, MacKenzie, I love you.  And I want to marry you whenever you are ready.”

“Please tell me you still have the receipt from the new ring.”

“I do. I want to make sure that you like it first.  Why?”

“Because it is going back to Tiffany’s.  I assume that’s where this one came from, too.”

“You can’t mean?”

“I want the one in your hand—when it’s time, and I have no idea when that will be. But we are returning the new one today. First thing.”

“Don’t you want to see it before deciding?”  He was genuinely surprised and confused. 

“If none of this happened—if there wasn’t all this baggage between us—and you were picking out a ring, which one would you choose?”

“This one,” he replied again, showing her the ring in his hand.

“Then you are returning the one in your pocket.”

He remained adorably bewildered by her response.  “Are you sure?” he questioned again.

“Yes.”

He put the ring back in his pocket and once again, she was enveloped in his arms.  He kissed her on the forehead before resting her head against him and hugging her tight.  She hugged him back just as fierce.  “You are so beautiful,” he told her. 

She longed to kiss him.  However, there was something sweet and wonderfully healing about simply holding each other, too. She could feel the same desire in him. He, too, was holding back.  He would not go further with her until she gave him express permission. She was reminded of the early days of their relationship—and of Valentine’s Day. 

Perhaps they needed to rebuild that foundation of intimacy together again before adding more to the physical aspects of their relationship.  There was still so much to sort out before she could be certain that they could work in the future, because there would be no going back from that decision.  She doubted either of them could recover from a second breakup.  Besides it had really only been eight hours. Moreover, she had not come to terms yet with Nina.  She would not make love with Will until she did. And had Will once and for all put the ghost of Brian to rest?  That question, too, was an important consideration in how their future relationship would be shaped.

“How do we stop hurting each other?” she asked him, her head still resting against the curve between the base of his neck and shoulder blade, though their hold on each other was gentler.  This thought had been on her mind since she stepped into the car last night at Hang Chew’s. 

He stood and walked over to the suite’s dining table.  For the first time, she noticed there were several gifts in the middle of it.  He returned and handed her a flat package.

“What’s this?”

“A non-birthday, birthday present.  Open it,” he told her.

“That is something I would say.”

“For where thou art, there is the world…”

She laughed and then told him, “I’m not opening anything until you put those two simple diamonds you are carrying someplace other than your pockets.  One of us has to be practical.”

“Says the daughter of an English Lord,” he threw back.  But he immediately did what she asked.


End file.
